The Witch's Daughter - MP3 Download
The Witch's Daughter Lyrics
Verse 1
On Barrel Well Hill where the cobblestones lean,
Stands a crooked old house no map has seen,
Its windows hum low with rosemary and thyme,
Keeping secrets stitched quietly into time.
A girl with wild hair and a hush in her smile,
Has counted the moons for a long, patient while,
The bells ring thirteen, the threshold is crossed,
What’s given is gained, what’s hidden is lost.
Chorus
Oh Winona Wren, with your hands stained green,
Daughter of spells that slip between,
Herbs in your pockets, love in your breath,
You mend what is broken, you soften what’s left.
But whisper, dear heart, let the old rules stand
Magic must hide though it blooms in your hand.
Verse 2
Her mother hums charms by the firelight glow,
Of women who learned what not to show,
Of love brewed gently, never forced,
Of power held quiet, never hoarse.
Winona learns names of root and flower,
Of when to wait and when to empower,
How kindness can bind stronger than fear,
How truth must be folded, never too clear.
Chorus
Oh Winona Wren, now the craft is yours,
From threshold herbs to hidden doors,
Love is your calling, healing your art,
You stitch the world back, heart to heart.
But softly, dear witch, let no one see
The strongest magic is secrecy.
Bridge
The crooked house listens, the hill remembers,
Every witch born of Chester embers,
The well beneath hums old and deep,
A promise sworn the young must keep.
Verse 3
At thirteen years and one full night,
She’s sworn by candle, leaf, and light,
To guard her gifts from careless eyes,
To let her magic live disguised.
A cup of tea, a kindly word,
A charm unsung, a spell unheard,
For love works best when it feels like chance,
And magic thrives in a quiet dance.
Final Chorus
Oh Winona Wren of Barrel Well Hill,
Your power is gentle, patient, and still,
A witch of herbs, of love, of care,
Of unseen threads in the midnight air.
Go softly, dear daughter, the old ways endure
Hidden magic is the truest cure.
Outro
So if you pass where the houses bend,
And feel your ache begin to mend,
Thank the hill, the well, the wren
And never ask what, how, or when.