In the heart of a forest, where shadows dance, A cauldron bubbles in a mystic trance. Sixty years of wisdom, swirling bright, A witch's path under the moonlight. With cackles echoing through the ancient trees, And spells whispered on the autumn breeze, Silver strands weave through her flowing hair, A crown of years, exquisite and rare. The night is hers, this hallowed eve, Where magic's threads in her fingers weave. A toast with potions brewed from lore, To sixty years and sixty more. Beneath the stars, with a timeless grace, She celebrates the path she’s traced. In the cauldron's glow, her spirit's free, A dance of age and mystery.