Swathed in red is Hekate. Hooded in red is Hekate. Red-hemmed Artemis, lift aloft your burning torch, And bring the trumpet of the nocturnal hunt. The flow of life is in the hands of Hekate, And her burning light guides the way. Terror-ridden roar of the bull is the trumpets blast, And the hounds bay in search of their prey. The beasts of the woods shudder in their homes, And a scream fills the night air. None is safe from the nocturnal hunt, And Hekate guides the host of souls to their new abode. The light of Hekate does not flicker, But illuminates the halls of the dead, And exalts in the company of fair Persephone. Bloodied-red Hekate, we leave your monthly feast, At the site of your throne. Red-swathed Hekate has all roads lain before her, And the merciful Goddess greets those unfortunates who share her plate. The touch of Hekate is merciful, and in her embrace we depart.
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 . . . ."