It is time to give voice to a truth too long left unspoken: old prejudices and the breath of misogyny still stir within the circles of the Craft…

I have known men of rare and luminous devotion, men whose offerings rise with true humility, whose service to the Arte is untainted by vanity. However…

Far more often I have encountered those who claim to work with the Goddesses, or even speak for them, yet falter when a woman speaks with clarity and force. Some look upon women as mere mirrors for their own fantasies, forgetting that every woman bears a spark of the Sacred within. Many weave illusions of gnosis born of their fetishes of the feminine, but if they cannot perceive and honor the divine within women and within the feminine souls of the Craft, then they hold no true claim to Her Mysteries.

And perhaps most unsettling of all, there are women who uphold these same distortions, for they too carry within them the raw, unhealed wounds of patriarchy, and through those wounds its ancient scars are kept alive.

Consider Bellatrix, the Amazon Star, the warrior’s light in the constellation Orion. From her silver fire flow the gifts of courage and fierce speech, carried by women whose words are as keen as any blade. The witches and sorcerers are the daughters of that star, and in their voices the Arte itself is honored:

Devotional Poem to Bellatrix

Beneath Bellatrix’s argent scar,
the midnight winds intone afar.
From witchborn mouths the serpents slide,
their woven spells through shadow glide.

Each syllable, an arrow rare,
fletched in oath and midnight air,
is loosed where hidden powers dwell,
to knot and turn the secret spell.

Their speech becomes the moonlit way,
where signs are sown and worlds obey.
No bow more cunning, none so free,
as words that pierce eternity.

For from that Star these daughters rise,
with hymns that strike the veiled skies,
and through their tongues the Arte is crowned,
in night’s deep circle, rune‑bound, sound.

And above the fields of night lingers Lilith, ancient and sovereign, known in many tongues as the Mother of Witches. She is the first to walk away from chains, the insolent and untamed spirit who teaches by example that freedom itself is sacred. In every woman who refuses to surrender her truth, Lilith’s breath moves like a secret wind.

It is a sorrow to see women in covens yielding their inner knowing to the dictates of men of inflated egos, forgetting the wisdom that stirs in their own spirit. Yet each carries within her the deep Forge and the silent Void of Creation. Like Sophia, she breathes forth gnosis; she is the threshold between life and death, the veil and the unveiling.

The true Mysteries of the Feminine are not given to those who only speak Her name. They open only to those who honor Her in every living woman, and in reverence for Mother Earth; who walk in humility before Her vastness. All others reach only toward delusions, never touching Her truly.

It is time for women to remember their own rebellion, for Witchcraft is ever a Feminine Arte, rooted in the deep soil of the Night and the flowing rivers of the Moon. Let their voices ascend, weaving through grove and temple alike, and let their teachings illumine the crooked ways of this new era.

Those rites wherein woman is reduced to image or fetish shall be relinquished to the grave-mould; those who would bind female neophytes beneath their own illusions of mastery shall find their words crumble as dry leaves. When a woman radiant with power speaks the Truth voiced from the Unseen; when her gaze penetrates through every bone and shadow of the false; her voice is a Current none can dam. The mirror of her presence shatters projections, and what was sought to be shaped for another’s thirst returns to its sovereign form.

Let such women wield their magick as powerful poison, in both justified wrath and inevitability, against those who would try to dig corrupted claws on their Light. Let their sorcery coil within the threshold of nightmares, working its slow alchemy of undoing. Let their revolt be found in the black mirror of the Dark Moon, in the silent talons of the nocturnal succubus, in the wind that moves through the graveyard with no face and no name.

Let them become Death and Power intertwined, as the seed is hidden within the fruit, as the root is hidden within the night‑soil. Let them drink not from any vessel shaped by man’s hand, but from the primordial Well itself: the Womb of the Dark Goddess, the hidden Source, the ever‑flowing Fountain wherein all Arte is conceived. For Her blood flows to ours, eternally…

Drink deeply, Daughters of the Craft. Rise in silence and in song. For the Arte is eternal, and through your Irreverence it flowers anew.