Song of Baba Yaga

In the woods where shadows creep,
Where twisted trees in silence keep,
There stands a hut on chicken’s feet,
Where Baba Yaga’s heart does beat.

Oh, beware, beware her darkened gaze,
Her laughter cold, her fire ablaze.
She flies on winds where nightmares dwell,
The witch of dusk, the crone of spell.

She stirs her pot with knotted hand,
Her herbs and bones from cursed lands.
Her teeth like iron, her hair like smoke,
With every word, a fate she’ll stoke.

Oh, beware, beware her darkened gaze,
Her laughter cold, her fire ablaze.
She flies on winds where nightmares dwell,
The witch of dusk, the crone of spell.

Some say she’s wise, some say she’s vile,
With ancient knowledge and wicked guile.
She’ll grant you a boon or lead you astray,
But the price you pay you must obey.

A lock of hair, a whispered name,
She’ll take your wish, she’ll play her game.
But one misstep and her wrath you’ll find,
For the Baba Yaga’s not kind.

To those who seek her, tread with care,
In tangled woods where few would dare.
For she’s the mistress of fate’s own weave,
The Baba Yaga, both bless and thieve.

Oh, beware, beware her darkened gaze,
Her laughter cold, her fire ablaze.
She flies on winds where nightmares dwell,
The witch of dusk, the crone of spell.

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A song and a warning about the Baba Yaga.