Beneath the silver moon’s tender gaze,
The witches gather, in a mystic haze.
Their laughter echoes through the night,
A spellbound chorus, a haunting light.

Robes of midnight, stars in their hair,
They weave their magic, with utmost care.
Enchanting whispers fill the air,
A secret power, beyond compare.

Circles drawn with sacred intent,
Potions brewed, energies spent.
Nature’s forces they command,
With gentle touch, or iron hand.

As dawn approaches, they disappear,
Shadows fading, the world to clear.
Yet their presence lingers on,
In dreams and whispers, until dawn.