Beneath the silver glow of the crescent moon,
In the heart of the ancient woods they gather,
Clad in shadows and whispers of the night,
Witches dance in a circle, weaving spells of old.

Their cauldron bubbles with secrets untold,
Potions mix with chants in the crisp, cool air,
Eyes gleaming with the light of distant stars,
They spin tales of magic and mystery, woven fair.

The forest listens, holding its breath,
As the wind carries their voices far and wide,
Echoing through the branches like a soft lullaby,
Enchanting the world in its gentle tide.

With every step, the earth joins their song,
Roots and leaves sway in harmonious embrace,
Under the watchful gaze of the moon above,
Witches conjure dreams that time cannot erase.