In the name of the witches….
asks for forgiveness. It is time, right now, to remember your torturers, sadistic instincts and cruelty. The greed with which your servants enriched themselves when the fires blazed, blood flowed into the dungeons, the blood of innocent women, girls, children and wise men.
Lose a word of atonement, Institution Church, go into yourself before your representatives dare to speak of murder when it comes to the decision of a abortion. Take the bar out of your eye before you dare to rush your Christian parties again on women, historically maltreated also and especially out of your ranks.
In the name of the witches, please apologize for the funeral pyres, built for human children, their old knowledge and their gardens of fertility.
Turn back.

A more beautiful life without animal suffering,
Maybe dreams or romantic magazines about wild gardens, where homemade jams and chutneys have their cradle, influenced me.Finally idyllic from vegetarian to vegan, amidst fragrant herbs, flowering bee pantries, yes, that’s how my ideas were when we stopped in front of the old quarry stone house with all the furniture vans to stay.
Mind you, I still want to stay here as long as my feet carry me up the mountain over the old cobblestone. 
The awakening from my dream, accompanied by the horror of old customs like “HAHNEKÖPPEN” or “GÄNSEREITEN” came quickly. Shopping for vegans is only an option since the supermarkets offer a few overpriced little things. But the working woman, always on the run, needs sometimes a quick approval.
At political conferences, for example, my daily ration consists of the wilted decoration suggestions on minced meat or ham rolls, scented with the appropriate meat scent. If I order a vegan buffet in the best house in town with an acclaimed chef, every salad, gratin or soup is dipped in cream or bathed. When the house delivery service brings me a vegan plate with extra charge, “at least” a little chicken is there. And the fun that the nice neighbours have when they can smuggle cheese or a little minced meat into my food.
Yes, they try, sometimes shaking their heads, sometimes with the usual jokes, when I have bad luck, with the best slaughtering or hunting experiences. So I stay at home, eat alone. And when they do manage to persuade me, I sit in the smoke of burnt meat from dead animals and chew politely a piece of dull white bread.
Meanwhile I know about a few like-minded people, the health food shop sometimes offers something, while moths regularly hatch from my supplies at home. I have to cancel the delivery service, I’m not as fast as the moths.
The beautiful day on which I was invited to Belgium, to the world’s very best fries, remains my greatest disappointment. When it’s finally my turn, hungry and full of anticipation, the Belgian fryer laughs at me radiantly: “Our Belgian fries are the best” and he refers to a big white poster: “fried in the best beef fat”.