The Meeting

If you could meet yourself
when but a child,
before the sacrifices,
before the blood.
When you were mortal.
When the air did not
Freeze as you breathed it.
Before the Elves had made with you,
The Fivefold Pact, that gives
The False Forever to their Thralls.
What would you say to your innocent self?
Clad then in modest grey-black robes,
Ugly as when you were born,
With long-nosed honest ugliness,
No more than sixty years of age.
The staff of Holy Writ still in your hands.
Would you tell how,
You would betray it all,
When death breathed on your neck?
Would you say you ceased your vigil,
Smashed your staff, into the separate
Bones of several saints,
Defaced the runes,
About the ancient places?
And rewarded, run young,
Skipping hence - to times
And places forbidden:
Moving to evil's tunes,
A foe to all.
Child-lamia, Changeling,
Elf-child, Woe-sister,
Step-daughter of Lilith?
Would you name yourself,
to yourself?
Or would you grin, and giggle,
In your party dress,
Flowers out of Hades
In your hair, and dance away?