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Her voice is calling me again.

The child is trapped deep down the well.

Won't you come, she pleads in vain,

and free me from the witch's spell?

The strands of her fair flaxen hair
float upon the rising water.
Why won't you help me, don't you care?
Don't you love me like your daughter?

She lifts her slender arms to me.
More stridently does she implore.
But in the watery depths I see
the bones of those she snared before.

I lean back slowly from the lip,
cast a glance in search of stone.
Heft a boulder and with a grip
of fear I drop it on the crone.

At last the siren call is stilled.
The child arises from the well.
As I look down my blood is chilled.
I spy the raging fires of hell.