William Allan

There are places where history sleeps.
And then, there are places where it still watches.
At night, the air changes in some places like this. It is singular in its repose. The forest becomes still. Then, the silence grows alive.

A MARVELOUS morning breakfast in Transylvania! 🙏😎😍💕❤️

On the night of Walpurgisnacht, when veils grow thin,
The forest breathes with a secret within.
Flames rise high, a spiraling tongue,
Where ancient songs are fiercely sung.

Cloaked in shadows, beneath moon’s gaze,
They turn in circles, lost in the blaze.
Brooms lift skyward, cutting the night,
Carving the dark with arcs of flight.

Whispers weave through ember and air,
Old as the roots beneath them there.
Laughter echoes, wild and free—
A dance of fire, of fate, of mystery.

For just one night, the worlds align,
And mortal breath meets the divine.

Happy Walpurgisnacht Witches!
🦉🕸️🌘✨🍂👻🧛‍♀️🧙🧙‍♂️🧙🧙🧙