Through birchwood dusk, where the old paths wind,
Baba Yaga listens with a knowing mind.
Her hut turns slowly on its chicken legs;
The moon spills silver on the forest’s edge.
“Name what is yours,” she says to the night.
“Keep what is loving, keep what is right.
What came unbidden, what weighs on your chest,
May leave with the wind. You may come to rest.”
No curse in her kettle, no spite in her spell;
Just a door opening, just a farewell.
She gathers the shadows that do not belong
And sends them back gently, where they came from.
Your heart is your hearth; let its bright fire glow.
Your spirit knows what to keep, what to let go.
My energy stays clean and whole;
My peace is my own, my home, my soul.
So go, little burden, beyond the dark trees.
Return to your source on the wandering breeze.
No harm follows after. No debt, no demand.
What is not mine leaves. I reclaim my own land.
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