Locusta walks among open graves,

pouring aconite into a cup that no longer reflects the moon.

A drop falls, and a child stops crying in the nearest cradle.

Canidia raises her left hand,

crows descend from the Tiber like liquid pitch,

covering her face, entering her gaping mouth.

lets them carry the eyes of all traitors hanged at dawn. They leaf through the volume written in virgin blood,

Pages bleed secrets of the dead,

lines bind the world in silent torment.

Deadly nightshade drips through Locusta's fingers,

its dark juice sliding from the berry,

like the last thought

of one swallowed by darkness,

lost for eternity.

No fire,

no blood spilled,

air heavy as lead,

lungs surrendering.

When they pass,

wheat bends until it breaks,

mothers clutch their children,

already feeling hearts stop.

Veneficium

is not a spell

death breathing softly within you,

since time immemorial. Close your eyes,

the crows are counting:

one,

two,

the third never comes.

No fire,

no blood spilled,

air heavy as lead.