Lyrics

You called us witches—fine, then beware.
We were gods in the garden before you named prayer.Not wicked, just woken—too much for your cross,Too sharp to be silenced, too wild for your loss.We bled with the moon and we birthed without shame,We spoke to the earth and she answered by name.But you—graceless men in your pulpits of smoke—
Choked on the power you couldn’t revoke. We were daughters of dusk, of the root and the rain,With nettles for prayers and blood in our name.Not brides of the altar, but midwives of fate—They feared what they couldn’t seduce or sedate.Our mouths were too full of the moon to obey,Our eyes too fluent in secrets to stray.We stirred not just cauldrons, but questions and skies,And brewed up the truth in a world built on lies.They branded us “witches” with fire and spit, For daring to know, for refusing to sit.They came with their crosses and swords and writ. Men trembling in pulpits and pews full of women who’d quietly sit. You burned what you feared, then knelt in your filth,Wrote sermons on ashes, wore piety’s silk.You preached of our “sins” as the timber took fire—and sin is just power you failed to acquire.But power in petals, they called it a curse—And so they unrolled us like scripture in reverse.Stripped of our voices and gowns stitched in lore,They lit us like candles, then prayed we’d restore.
Did they think us unmade by the kindling they stacked?That our souls could be silenced by brimstone and black?We are not the smoke that the wind carried wide—We are still in the seeds that the children hide.Our cauldrons boiled truth, not poison nor lies,Yet you spat in our eyes as you reached for the skies.You stripped us and beat us, called it divine—Hung justice in beams and bathed it in brine.
We haunt like a hymn in a heretic’s throat,
In every girl told that her worth is a coat.
Each match struck in judgment re-lit our old spark—Now the ashes have teeth, and the shadows leave marks. Your crosses were crooked, your Bibles were torn,Your Christ looked away when your justice was sworn.
You weaponized grace like a noose for the throat—Then preached about mercy in ashes and smoke. But I am not gone—I am roots in your throat.The rot in your steeple, the blood in your vote.I walk in your silence, I bloom in your dread,And laugh from the lips of the women you fled.You made martyrs from midwives, made hell out of light,But fire fed fury—and we learned to bite.So call us again, I dare you—invoke.We’ll rise from your pages and on our names you will choke.So whisper my name in your sleep, if you dare,And feel how it tangles like thorns in your hair.We were witches, yes—But we were also the cure.And truth, when it burns,Is the truth that endures.