The war witch wakes like a tree full of bees, her screams shatter the valley and perverted city below, her eyes are wild and her hair radical, her clothes are torn, and she is death for the armies who cross the teeth-like mountain, you hear her war drums, it is the apocalypse, she makes the lakes and rivers run red with blood, she knows each flower, each clover, each jagged rock and rusty knife in a grave, the decapitated peasants that line her castle walls are crude warnings, she speaks to them, her Gwyllgi howls, his eyes are volcanic, his black fur almost blue in the moonlight, the stone walkway is cold on bare feet, the trees are decorated with the hanged, the very dirt belongs to her, the red clay she adores, no bird can fly without permission, you should never come here. Her teeth are like shark teeth, she has a blue dress, you see her on the bridges, it's her lake, and it's full of dolls, a lake of the drowned, it pleases her and the quiet melancholy in the country field before a war is her favorite thing.