Her name was Carla; she told me so,
That was Carla- rosy red,
Beneath the silent, brown bowed head.
Clinging to a hopeless faith,
A long and silent fruitless wait,
But heaven sees what goes on,
Golden thunder, blue sky- born.
Wonder cairns form tall arches,
Hanging from the listless branches,
Falls to the ground around,
Loving Carla, with her rhythmic sound.
Sixty songs all burn out too,
There’s nothing for her to sing anew,
So she lies in the shade of the blistering birch,
While hymns for her echo from the church.
Safety forsakes her for better times,
The world gets away with their bitter crimes,
But she waits; grows much more,
Grows her wings and tries to soar.
But can she escape, beauty-bound,
Because of the treasure that she found?
Because Carla, with her mute language,
Grows sad, and gives way to rage.
Comfort works nothing for her,
She is just left to suffer,
All she never did, was done,
And now to lay the blame upon her son.
Yes, Carla sought, help to find,
But nothing to linger upon her mind,
They still blamed her son unfair,
They couldn’t escape, but stayed there.
Carla was accused of witchcraft,
Drowning their poor neighbour’s raft,
They blamed her for teaching her son too,
But can that story possibly be true?
When I met Carla, she was sweet,
Despite her matted hair and dusty feet,
She could never but be called a witch,
She was never secretive, nor was she rich.
She was a poor widow, so simple and kind,
Exhausted but charming, and pure of mind,
She was old, had not an ambition,
Never a witch, nor any magical creation.
But they dragged her to the banks of the lake,
Of the city- to the wooden stake,
Despite her cries, nailed her across,
They pierced her heart at the holy cross.
But Carla will forever live on,
And continue, even when she’s gone,
And I’ll never forget her, as she,
Was the one to love, and the one to be.