There's this widow and the mother of a stillborn,

Always sitting at the market square to mourn,

She's the fuel to the fire of women's gossip,

She's the reason while the children always run.

For they say that she's the killer of her husband,

And they say that she's the murderer of her child!

So her inlaws tossed her out while she was helpless,  

And they claimed that their hate was justified!

It was hard times in the land,

There was sowing with no harvest.

People could not understand,

They resorted to bitterness.

And they sought someone to blame

To bear their weight of their disdain.

They said, "We don't really care,

Burn the Witch!"

But this poor woman always minded her business,

And she never ever asked for empathy.

She would scavenge in the trash for substandard meals,

She was used to people's lack of charity.

Cold and lonely nights she spent alone in wailing,

Comprehending all she loved forever gone.

But the people claimed her cries were incantations!

And that she was spelling them all to their doom!

Well they wanted her to hang!

Tie her to a stake and burn her!

Chop her limbs for sacrifice!

Drown her in the sacred river!

For somebody had to die

If they wanted to survive.

They cried, "We'll do what it takes to

Burn the Witch!"

Why, this woman though ill fated would not give in

To the voices complementing her despair.

At the end of every long night is a morning

And the hope she breathed in was in the air.

She ignored the glares and scorn of the frustrated.

Well alas she had to start somewhere anew!

After all the condemnation she had endured,

She was finally ready to move on too.

In the middle of the night, there was no familiar weeping

When the people came in droves thinking she was only sleeping,

They would lock her in her dreams,

They would silence all her screams,

Saying, "We don't give a damn,

Burn the Witch!"

But she was no longer there,

She had already gone away,

To a place no-one would say,

“Burn the Witch!"