In the heart of the shadowed grove,
Where whispers dance with the night,
The witches gather in silent trove,
Beneath the silver moonlight’s sight.

Their cauldrons bubble with ancient lore,
Spells woven from the threads of time,
Chanting secrets never told before,
In voices soft as a distant chime.

With eyes that gleam like stars above,
They draw the magic from the air,
Casting dreams of fear and love,
Weaving fate with tender care.

As dawn approaches, they fade away,
Leaving echoes in the morning mist,
The world awakens to a brand new day,
Touched by a witch’s gentle twist.