Visionaries often dream in black, of
black rock. The raising of works to an
imagined centre. Some hidden perennial philosophy. Easier to see the luminescence of sigil and
sign against the canvas of night, I suppose.
Studying the occulted registers of those polyhedral gates by the
water. Those risen places of oldest
Kathari. Now chasing the imagined
spirits of composite ghosts. Fulcanelli,
or Flamel. Our Lady of mercurial tempest, on silver rivers further
reaching than the Seine. This blackening
earth. Sword of Eth'iir. It is raining beneath the nave, in ways
beyond profit or purchase. Kashi speaks,
as you imagine daemons might speak. Spirits
of genius. How dare you,
wraith-lords? Lesser kings. How dare you claim these gates as your
own? You didn't shape our stones nor
raise our learned schools. Liars. You slay and then steal the work of others,
pretending ownership. Things you can lazily
repurpose without grasping the true majesty of those works. These gaudy fables of erudition you invented.
Well, it takes little skill to murder
teachers, conceal their ancient texts and poison their gardens. You call yourselves masters of
a craft? Don't make me laugh. Your
tales of Egypt and antiquity. These lies
of lineage. Would you like to see a real
gypsy's magic? I think not. You can't even look at me, can you? Tell me, what do you really know of
chrysanthemums, or chrysopoeia? Hallowed
fire kissing water in that upward fall you so fear. Head to head.
A language of respiration, and birds. A language
you didn't invent either. Chlorophyll
nymphs among the unseen forests of the vestry.
At the heart of our endless cathedral of trees. Shepherd and sheep. Rupes Nigra, as you call it. Dark as Albion Black. All the better to trace stars upon the wheels
and blades of procession. Aether; place
of the crossing, and the cross. Polaris
and his prism. Night-lights dancing
before dawn. Stones that breathe among angels and aster. Hurry now to the krater of living
waters, I say. As Offerus did, carrying
the child through churning grey. I too
was grey, once. Across rivers further
reaching than you know. This was never about semiotic games, Fallen. Never about cliques, power or exclusion. Quite the opposite. This is about the Word. About service. Tending the wounded and the lost. Uplifting the least of our brothers and
sisters, of every song and faith. As it was of our true history, beyond your false chronologies. Beneath
this reigning nave is a gate of healing; a dreaming forest of fractals and
higher thought. Our doors are open to
everyone. From beggar to king. You cannot lie to the chymic nor the
wedding. Nascent works made golden in
the waters. And nameless. So, tell me again your so-called secrets of
the rose? Tell me to my face.
Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
Saturday 19 June 2021
Eth'iir
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Wow! So powerful.
ReplyDeleteNot entirely sure what I just read but I am left with an image in my mind of an angel grabbing the face of Satan, mouth to mouth as if to kiss, but instead unleashing fiery truth vomit down his throat.
(Love that video too)