These mountains: blackness, silence, and snow. The red hunter climbs down from the forest; Oh the mossy gaze of the wild thing. The peace of the mother: under black ﬁrs The sleeping hands open by themselves When the cold moon seems ready to fall. The birth of man. Each night Blue water washes over the rockbase of the cliff; The fallen angel stares at his reﬂection with sighs, Something pale wakes up in a suffocating room. The eyes Of the stony old woman shine, two moons. The cry of the woman in labor. The night troubles The boy’s sleep with black wings, With snow, which falls with ease out of the purple clouds.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."