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Solus Noir Canticles De Arte Magicka

Volume II Number III Spring Equinox MMXIVev

Editorial Greetings from The Fabled City. With this the sixth issue of Solus Noir – Canticles De Arte Magicka we complete Volume II and we continue to explore the rich vein of creativity that is the current, Solus Noir. Station To Station – The Mirror’d Sceptre, described as an anecdote serves to present a double description of a magickal world. Axiomata Per Samael is a series of Axiomata in their purest form. Heavens Gate, another albeit poetic take on an extensive magickal working. The Sands Of Time is, as stated an anthology of various threads within the current and The Talking Monkey [ perhaps part 1 ] serves as the avatars vehicle of expression and is an exercise in compassion. All materials originate within the corpus of Solus Noir and our contributors trust that there is something of interest to our patient readers. Drink deep from the stream lest your form evaporates into the void from whence you came. Breathe deeply of the intoxication that holds you bound by blood and bone. Think deeply upon the thoughts that carry you from ecstasy to ecstasy through the tapestry of appearance. Adieu

In Nomine Babalon

Contents Station To Station – The Mirror’d Sceptre

Damiana Evohe

An Anecdote For The Wise Axiomata Per Samael

777 & 131

A Mutus Liber Heavens Gate


Liber Astarte – A Bhakti Working The Sands Of Time

Damiana Evohe

An Anthology The Talking Monkey


An Exercise In Compassion Cover Art Arte Graphika Axiomata Sigils & incidental graphics Created or reconstituted by Muse and Vesica within the body of Solus Noir


Twilight Twilight Fell. A veil drawn across the face of the daystar whose last breath burst from lungs, a golden glory. The velvet touch of advancing night drew shadows into its heart and rendered hardened edges soft, shaped the glade to its will and called down the moon, who rose a sickle, blood red. At the heart of the glade wrapped in a mantle of silven light the mere reflected the stars that now gave of their light to the earth below. The softest of breezes etched ripples upon its mercurial surface before finally coming to rest and amidst the reflected stars the sickle moon hung as a diadem. The willows that stood as sentinels upon her banks bowed their limbs as if offering a prayer to the fathomless depths and deep within their roots they drank of the nectar which sustains all things. The leaves which covered their nakedness rustled in the stillness and sibilant whispers, barely audible, spoke of the times that had been, were and were yet to be.

Station To Station The heavens touched the earth, a single arc upon which shrouded in ebon light a small group gathered, The only connection between them their common humanity which shone as a seal upon their furrowed brows. A king mantled in power held the scepter and staff of his office in hands that trembled with the burden that his birthright had granted him. A pauper, soiled rags were the robes of his office and these he wore with dignity and deep within the orbs of his eyes a light shone. His hands clasped in prayer were strong and true. A concubine adorned in silks drew her mantle of velvet around her naked shoulders and a tremble passed through her body as ecstasy claimed her once again. A mother ripe with another life within her womb clasped the hand of a child of seven summers who extending his other hand gently held a dragonfly and wondered at the beauty that surrounded him.

Twilight Deepens Into Night Twilight opened the portal and Night entered. The daystar rose in another land whose mysteries paraded across the surface of his mirrored eyes and called forth memory. Night clenched its fists and the shadows fell to silence, retreated and awaited the time when once again they would claim dominion but for now they could but wait as their master surveyed the vista before him. The mere, the body of our holy lady at its heart formed a vortex which spiraling upwards and outward drew from the air substance that would serve as robes for the one who rose from the depths. Her breath, pine and Jasmin perfumed the air, now tinted carmine. The willows deep in thrall arched their boughs and their robes trembled as a song broke the silence that had reigned until this moment and as it gathered itself its tempo rose into a cadence of cascading tones that swept the scene as the wind might play with all it encounters. Honeyed wine poured from the stars and mixing itself within the mere, the elixir was formed.

A Sovereign’s Tale Deep within the citadel far from the prying fingers of light the oubliette, a chamber of darkness once more greeted the awakening of its sole occupant. Cast into it he had been long ago when the tyrant armed with cross and sword had breached the shoreline of his domain and cursed his people with the word of god. Exactly how long ago he had no way of knowing for no light or shadow determined the passing of time. Darkness, his only companion punctuated by the occasional opening of the trap within the door through which was passed food and water, this he rationed and barely ever escaped the pangs of hunger and thirst. Each offering he deemed his last for it was only a matter of time when one day, having been forgotten no offering would appease his solitude. Clinging to the memories of the time before, this and this alone held the balance of his mind within its tenuous grip. Thought of escape, a notion he long ago dispensed with for in the darkness he had felt his way across walls and floor and found them seamless and unyielding. The door, of iron, he assumed, gave no sign of vulnerability and as to the ceiling too out of reach to measure. No human face had he seen, no visitor, no interrogator or torturer, even such would have been relief from the isolation and in his heart he held the feeling he had been abandoned, forgotten. Even the time before was slipping from his grasp as the unrelenting silence and darkness claimed his soul, sliver by sliver. Only one thought remained clear to him, the day when his father had died and he had ascended the throne. Dressed in his robes of office he held the scepter and orb of his office and was anointed by the priests of his kind as regent, to rule all that he surveyed. The memories of this time are scant but he recalls that compassion was the signature of his rule and he believed that he was loved by his people. Was this true? Was this hope tormenting him with its toxic barb? In truth he would never know for truth and fiction were mere words he barely recognized.

The tyrant he remembered well enough, fair of complexion, blue of eye, slight yet tall and crowned by a mane of silver golden hair. A smile ever upon his lips he had seduced the king and at a banquet he had been poisoned and here he found himself upon regaining consciousness. There was a time when concern for his people had possessed him but this like everything else had slipped from his grasp and stripped bare he now lay upon the hard, cold stones and mourned the life he had never had. Sovereign to all he surveyed, indeed.

Night’s Errant Children Night shook his robes and his children gathered. The daystar now a thing of distant memory entered the underworld and slumbered in the embrace of sister moon. Night’s errant children gathered about their lord and told him of their travels in far distant lands. Ergos whispered of dappled unicorns taking flight amongst the stars that knew no number. The mere now a mirror reflected the wings and hooves of the unicorns as they danced across the void. Endymion whispered of the birth of stars within a galaxy of mercurial dust and of the creatures that rose from the ashes of an extinct volcano and of Damiana who deep within the earth dreamed. This the willows drew into their roots and etched the memories into the rings that formed their bodies and the sap that rose within their veins. Veins that fed leaves and from them they exhaled a mist, intoxicating. The mist, a veil that our lady donned as raiment that her nakedness go unobserved as she entered Night’s embrace.

A Pauper’s Tale The citadel stood at the heart of the maze of streets and alleys that surrounded it and along one of its darker byways he walked. Shoulders hunched, barefoot and dressed in nothing more than a soiled cloth that did little to maintain his modesty. In one hand he held a begging bowl and in the other a crude staff that served to keep him upright. His only utterance, alms and blessings for the one before you, a constant dirge that escaped his lips and fixed the moment in stone. Fixing his one true eye on the scene before him he paused for there amongst the acacia’s hidden from common sight sat a regal beast the likes of which he had never seen. Feline, dappled spots covered its sleek fur and its eyes, the purest amber shone with a light of preternatural intensity. Rising it glided towards him and rubbing his legs with its head it transformed and there before him, as if out of legend stood the most captivating creature he had ever seen. Female in appearance, skin of cinnamon dappled with copper spots, sinuous and possessed of a power innate. Her face held within its features a thousand promises and her eyes the purest amber. Whispering into his ear she dissolved and entered our pauper who now transformed smiled as looked out upon the city before him and upon the air, the perfume of her presence and a sibilant whisper, “ come for I await thee, beloved.” Casting aside his begging bowl and straightening his once bent shoulders the pauper threw away his staff and stood tall in the mid day sun. The citadel, a short distance from where he stood called to him and as he approached its portal sentinels bowed and he gained entrance. The pauper, now a creature of mutable intent entered the private apartments, the door of which depicted a scene of Heaven’s Gate and as he reclined upon the cushions upon the floor he caught a reflection in the mirrored wall. The pauper smiled for he had, by his guile, defeated a sovereign and usurped his place for in the mirror reclined the tyrant who now mused upon the one he held deep within the citadel in his oubliette. Sovereign to all he surveyed, indeed.

Midnight Night entered his lady and life was seeded within her womb. The daystar though far away shivered as it recalled the time when it too had sprang from the font of life. Night deep within the embrace and the intoxication of his lady’s embrace drank of her nectar and where once his visage had been stern, now a smile creased his brow and upon his lips a single word, Beloved. The mere stirred as consummation unfolded and from its depths arrows of light broke the surface and were gathered into the quiver strapped across the shoulders of the huntress, Artemis and with these arrows she pierces the heart of all that exists. The willows feeling the silven shafts enter their bodies knew ecstasy as placing her lips upon his the lady sighs and knew contentment. Night in union rose through the veins of the sentinels and took flight upon wings of vision and this vision and the cauldron from whence it sprang became the soul of Gloria Mundi.

A Concubine’s Tale Cinnamon skin, the signature of her kind, distinguishable only by the pattern of copper spots that cover her head to foot, these her personal signature, here name. upon her thirteenth summer she had been consigned to the house of whispers where for the next four years she was taught the arts of the flesh in all their myriad manifestations. The first year she studied philosophy, music, art and literature and became adept upon the flute and her etchings drew notable attention. The second year she studied history, geography and the tongues of the inhabitants of the shimmering sphere she called home. The third year she studied the various heresies wherein god was enslaved and during this time commenced her weapons training, foremost of which was the crafting of her slight form into an instrument of war. The sword she mastered with ease but her weapon of choice was the stiletto with which she had became lethal. It was during her fourth year of training that she studied the Tantric arts and became proficient within the realm of the senses wherein she swam with the elegance and grace of a dolphin. Dedicated upon the altar of passion where pleasure and pain are but the adjectives of a language ancient as the stars themselves. Initiatrix incarnate. Many patrons sought both her hand and body upon the completion of her training, these she refused as was her right for as a true daughter of Lilith no man or woman could claim her. It was for her and her alone to choose if such was her will. For two decades she remained solitary slaking her thirst occasionally as the need took her. During this time she also perfected her studies and training and even the house of whispers courted her for her skill, knowledge and expertise. They would have her as their Reverend mother but this offer she also refused. The concubine sought her equal and during her thirty ninth summer upon a foreign and exotic shore she encountered what was to become her lord. Upon an ocean, wine red, aboard a craft of ebony with sails of silk they were transported half way across the world and disembarking the tyrant held her in his arms and conveyed her to the citadel which was now to serve as her home and latterly her prison.

Seven Bells Night felt the first shadow advance across the mere. As the daystar began to rise it shook off its slumber and from deep within its heart it released the shadows as dawn banished darkness. Night began to dissolve as once again his twin grasped the moment and with the rose of her lips upon his he softly slipped into the shadows to dream of the time yet to be when once again he would rise. Across the surface of the mere light rippled and the rainbow dance began. All around life stirred shook feather and fur and ventured forth. Dissolving into the embrace of the rainbow dance the ladye fayre descended into the depths of her memories to dream of her lord and lover. Unfurling their leaves the willows drew nectar from the advancing light and once again they had borne witness to the mystery that is Night. Turning their faces east they greeted the twin who rose a golden splendour tinted rose. The stars retreated as light bleached their presence and now their whispers were all that could be known of them.

A Mother’s Tale Her husband and father to the child in her womb gone beneath the sword of the invader. She struggles to keep both herself and the slumbering child alive and safe within a kingdom at war. Survive she must for like any mother her child is all that is important. Shelter she gained in one of the outlying farms as yet unmolested by the horde. The farmer and his wife took pity upon her and gave her what food and shelter they could provide and in return she performed such tasks as she was capable of. The months passed peacefully and her time came upon her. A bed chamber lit by candles, the air heavy with the scent of camphor, she lies upon a bed, pressure within her belly, sweat upon her body. She pushes downwards. Her breath escaping in gasps, she opens and is delivered of child, the rapture of release. Holding life within her hands, placing the child upon her swollen breast, she releases liquid into the expectant mouth and knows the pleasure of union and in this way another innocent was born to this life. He grew strong over the coming weeks and as the weeks became months he attained his first summer and upon this day a party of skirmishes, the tyrant’s mercenaries, came upon the farm. Putting the kind farmer and his wife to the sword. His mother raped and hung form the oak tree that wept at the violation performed upon it, the child now orphan was taken to the encampment and thrust into the arms of one of the whores that attended the camp. Reluctantly for she was but a child herself the young woman did what she could to keep the infant alive. Stealing milk and scraps when she could, the child prospered. Bastard was his given name but she whispered Aidan into his ear when their captors were absent. The surrogate mother did well and raised Aidan for the next five years until claimed by fever she died. Orphaned again the child now five was sold and met the woman he would call mother. Of barren womb she raised him as her own and named him Ymir after the last of the dragon lords. Three mothers had raised him. One gave him his body, another his mind and the third his heart. Some might say he was fortunate but in his heart he remained as he ever was, the bastard.

Mid Day Upon A Foreign Shore Night slumbered beneath a mantle of stars. The daystar lord of all he beheld called his children forth and cast them upon the tapestries that were their lives. His twin, now but a memory awaited his time as the cycle, the dance would turn once more upon the ocean of existence. Night and Day, Light and Dark, eternal change, eternal moment. Dragon flies, light cascading from their wings skipped across the surface of the mere in celebration of the day. A choir of frogs began their recital and around the mere life gathered to bear witness to another day. Deep within her slumbers the lady smiled as she witnessed her children at play. The willows raising their heads bathed within the light that now coursed through their veins and from their roots released the elixir into the air and their raiment shivered as a breeze rose from the south and its warmth shrouded them in a veil of bliss. Life bore witness to itself once again and celebrated the turning of the wheel.

A Child’s Tale The bastard, for such was his preference nurtured a dark shadow within his heart and in time it grew and consumed his innocence. Looking out upon the world he saw nothing but the enemy, an enemy to vanquish and yet he was but a boy. This, he knew would change and that time he awaited, eagerly, expectantly. Solitary for he sought no company only the woodlands and the surrounding hills brought him peace of a kind and in their embrace he schemed and dreamed of the life he would have. No longer a boy he fled the imposed sanctuary and joined the mercenaries that had killed both his mother and father and amongst them he learned to rape and kill and these acts alone brought a smile to his lips and lightened his heart. Noticing his relish for war his superiors took him under their wing and in time became sentinel of his own cohort. Ferocious they proved to be and among men accustomed to committing the vilest of crimes, they were feared. The bastard found god or perhaps it is god who found the bastard and a pact was formed. Signed in blood and with his newly gained vision, his sense of purpose, his conscience was appeased for he was now performing acts on behalf of a higher authority and as the instrument of his will the bastard would bring all to the cross that they know truth. Those foolhardy enough to denounce the one true word would feel the keen edge of his blade which separating body from soul would commit the former to the earth and the latter to heaven. Amen. It was in this fashion that the bastard took upon himself his true name and from that day and ever onwards he became the tyrant.

Station To Station The Mirror’d Sceptre The heavens touched the earth, a single arc upon which shrouded in ebon light a small group gathered, The only connection between them their common humanity which shone as a seal upon their furrowed brows. I The Outpost To say he lay within the citadel dreaming would not be an inaccurate turn of phrase, rather he lay scheming and the stuff of his schemes was woven into a web that spanned the empire, an empire forged in iron and blood. Custodian of the mirror’d scepter he had sworn to bring peace to the troubled time in which this present body had incarnated and to this end he wielded both the sword and the cross. The arc he had been told had birthed the mirror’d scepter and the one who possessed it, albeit briefly, would be granted dominion in both time and space. Space, the empire he held and time granted him the reflected masks of his various incarnations within a singular mind and body. In this way he could be both mother and child, sovereign and pauper, concubine and all the forms that lay inbetween. The outpost, once an Eden had been called the bride but now she lay violated within her chambers, stripped bare, she wept. The throne she sat upon, once a golden aura within the void now, threatened by the encroaching darkness gave off an aura of bruised tears and these the tyrant gathered within his heart and fueled the vision that was his alone. II The portal Of Dreams The group gathered upon the arc turned and directed their gaze to the one garbed in the mantle of kingship and entered his golden palace. Herein tales were written upon vellum, scribed in ink of gold and cast before the uncomprehending eyes and ears of the tyrant’s subjects that they know the word of god. Facet by facet the mirror’d sceptre turned as it hung within the void and the tyrant laughed. Upon his bed the tyrant within the grip of restless sleep turned, called out and felt the warmth of the concubine’s body within his embrace. Upon hearing his call she reached out and whispered into his ear “be at ease my love” and with these words now etched into us mind he returned to his schemes. The web tightened and she, ever vigilant, silently sat at its heart.

III The Magus Rises His education proved equal to the task. From the sovereign he acquired nobility and from the pauper humility. From the concubine, her learning and arte formed the bedrock of his ability. From the mother he learned of the impermanence of all things and from the child innocence. Station to station the tyrant ascended and granted dominion bent the world to his will and the magus was born in blood. In one hand he held the mirror’d sceptre and the other remained empty for a universe he had crushed within his unrelenting grip. Only the stars witnessed this and their whispers may be heard once the mind and heart are stilled. IV The palace Of The Vesica The dream, a recurring one had been with him for so long now that he was often unable to tell the difference between waking and sleeping. It began so long ago that memory no longer holds its exact beginning. Perhaps childhood, a time of promise, expectations and dreams? Perhaps even before that? To begin at the beginning. He came to consciousness in a place both welcome and alien. Others welcomed him and into their outstretched hands was he delivered. This period of time evades him, however I suspect a time of plenty, of safety was his lot. He flourished and in the embrace of those who protected him, he prospered. What was this place, this time? Memory of the dark time that preceded his coming to consciousness is vague, patchy and more a product of phantasy than actuality. His aspirations developed and over a period of many years these were fulfilled according to his abilities. In some instances success was his lot, at others disappointment poisoned him with its toxic barb. Childhood turned to adolescence and with it exploration of others truly began. Shaped and reshaped according to their expectations he began to develop the false self that whilst a curse also enabled him to survive in this, The Palace of Exiles. Some would say he did well, others, perhaps would say that he did his best. Finally after many years of uncertainty and false starts he made a home for himself and accrued all that was required to make a person, a citizen of him. The world applauded in its own way, granting him the privileges that were its to offer. Yet still he wondered. Was this all that he could expect? Was this how his sacred life, that wondrous mystery and gift could expect of itself? He built a golden cage and threw away the key. This was safety. This was what was expected of him and pursuing the dictates of the world he entered a profound slumber, hopefully to remain undisturbed, unaffected by the passage of time.

That is until the dreams began. She visited often. At the beginning there was the merest presence of her perfume, intoxicating, a toxin that invaded his mind and body with sweet delight. Promises of fulfilment. Promises of destiny she sowed into the web of his being. Latterly she visited him in form wrapping her long sensuous limbs around his reposing form. And what would you have my dreaming one? She would whisper and upon awakening the world, his world appeared hollow. And yet he persisted, ignoring her call, denying her presence until the torture of unhappiness engulfed him in its eternal embrace. What could he do, for he had by this time invested decades in giving form to the world, a world that now held him captive and all his doing. How to unmake this scheme became his quest. Like all things alien this was hard for each day called him to its service. Each face a reminder of what was expected of him. His life was complete and was reflected by all he knew and those that knew him. He began to perceive the bars of his cage. Golden and fine, they were. Gossamer fine, it is a wonder he even became aware of them. This he believed to be the result of her lingering perfume and whispers. Fear finally claimed him. How could he cast it all away, take a lifetime of building and simply deny it? How could he draw deeply into his lungs her presence and expectations? The world, known and a friend began to tremble as did he. As with all beginnings he began slowly for the effort was all consuming. Each act resisted as if the world, aware of his departure held on and for a period of time he experienced its death throes until one day he learned to perceive differently. From this time on he communed with himself regularly and with the passing of time things eased and a new level of normality was entered. A normality which at one time he would have perceived and considered to be bizarre and impractical now carried all the hallmarks of sense and logic. He gazed around his world noticing each detail, each reference point until like a holograph it stood clearly around him. He measured its limits, beyond which stood the unknown and more importantly he began to make agreements with himself. Feel the fear and move on became his clarion call. His first steps were tentative for it was necessary to feel at least something beneath his feet. This had the effect of widening the possibilities before him. Finally decisions were made for the horizons that confined his world widened and deepened and with trust in his heart and his mind awash with intent he began to let go of all that he had become in the certainty that the beneficence that surrounded him would sustain him, for was he not its child? In this way did he abstractly, at first and latterly practically begin the journey that took him to the edges of his world and where once fear had created crashing water and rocks now in their place was her sweet perfume and a whisper often heard, ‘Come, for I await thee.’

V The Dream Of Adonai The arc still, silent, dissolved as rapture claimed the small group gathered upon it and their essence, as a perfume, rose upon the aethyr. The mirror’d sceptre turned another facet and beneath a dome of lapis the lord lay within the embrace of sleep. Aeons had passed since he last drew breath for his children had consigned him to the vault wherein he lay. What became of his children is uncertain for only he remained. Crowned and conquering he had once spawned a race of giants who dwelt within the hills. Once he had conceived man and into its frail body had breathed his essence and thus formed its soul. Witnessing their triumph and failure he mourned and now all that remained to him was the sweet nectar of oblivion and this he drew into every pore upon his golden body as he lay dreaming. VI The Field Of Mars She had by her skill acquired the mantle of Vesica. Her blades, two in number hung at her side. The first crafted within the isle of the rising sun bore the sigil of her house, a serpent entwined around a globe. The second needle fine, she favoured and with it many a life had given its last breath to its silken embrace. Adorned in leather, blood red, her mantle drawn across her shoulders she stood overlooking the chasm spread before and beneath her. Her only adornment the helm which she currently held in her hands. It bore the shape of the head of an eagle. Its eyes forming the visor. Placing it upon her head she drew the visor down, drew her sword and swore her oath. Raising the visor she became invisible and ventured forth. VII The Citadel Rising from his bed the tyrant glanced to his side and there upon the bed of rumpled sheets and quilts watched as his concubine drew gentle breaths into her sleeping body. Placing his morning around his naked form he left the sleeping quarters and made his way to the council chamber and took his place at the head of the ebony table that stood at the centre of the vast hall. Gathered around the table the arc had assembled the small group it held in its care and these spoke their tales to the tyrant as he sit and attentively listened to each in turn. The only absentee, as ever, the pauper who even now dwelt far beneath them in the oubliette. Standing the tyrant cast his glance across the group before dismissing them with the merest of gestures. Left alone he mused upon their words and drew his schemes, like a mantle around his shivering body.

VIII The Palace Of Exiles Though darkness engulfed him as he lay upon the stone floor of his prison his mind burned with vision. Perhaps due to his thirst and starvation? Perhaps due to the arc sustaining his mind if nothing else or perhaps he had pierced the veil and experienced what lay beyond the veil of appearance? He walked across a trackless waste of golden sand, the bleached bones of those who had been here before him. Above him shone the ebon sphere whose acid light stripped all beneath its rays. The air shimmered and mirage claimed his mind, yet onward he walked, one faltering step and then another. Consigned to the palace of exiles long ago he walked, eternally, its featureless expanse. His skin burnt black by the relentless rays descending from above had long ago reduced his clothing to rags and these soiled by sweat and blood are all that remained of his past life. IX The Boundary Lands Desert gave way to beech and in its turn to the sea whose salt tang revived him as he fell into its shallows and as the waves gently ebbed and flowed he was revived. Rising he walked the shoreline and upon the horizon a vessel sailed towards him. In time it grew close and features could be determined. Its hull of ebony shone and the wind was caught within its silken sails of gold. It appeared unmanned and traveled with a will of its own. The arc turned a spiral and upon its deck he lay, carried to, he knew not where. Rain fell from the sky and this he gathered within his cupped hands and drank. Thirst, quenched he went below decks and into a state room he entered, upon a bed clothing lay. A jesters motley of black and gold. This he covered his naked body with, sought food and found it in the galley. A feast laid out upon a table of oak and this he fell to devouring until sated. Above the of his vessel was bathed in the light of a moon at its zenith and as the daystar broke the horizon land he saw and the towers of a city. Into port, he disembarked and made his way through he maze of streets and beheld the citadel. Approaching the guards bowed and he gained entrance for was he not the tyrant? X The Fabled City The arc and those gathered turned a revolution and as the sovereign looked into the mirror’d sceptre the bustle and commerce of the fabled city assailed the senses of our gathered group. The sovereign knew himself to be home. The pauper, lost to anguish could but weep. The concubine excited by the challenges before her drew a breath deep into her lungs and sang. The mother offered thanks for their deliverance and

the child now a boy of eleven summers looked upon the scene and could but wonder as to how they had arrived here. The tyrant gathered his masks and placed that of the sovereign upon his face. The pauper he donned as robes. That of the concubine he wore as a seal upon his heart and of the mother, she became his eyes whilst the child assumed the form of his body. XI The False Crown The mirror’d sceptre hung in space above the arc and its final facet opened and from its centre a single ray, bleached white dissolved all before it. Station to station it travelled at increasing speed, erasing each as it passed through. Its journey would encompass all that will ever be and from its matrix it drew the gods that shone as jewels upon its evolving form. History shaped by its passing left whispers and in into the heart of all that came to exist it sowed its seed of doubt. 000 The veil I Lucis Ignis Dei The first echo arises, plucked from the void. A column of light illuminating the darkness of eternity with its plasma burst. Extends, diffuses into the shadows of eternal night. Unfolds its thoughts, creates reflections of itself. Stars bask within its supernal luminosity. It knows itself not, only its reflections cast shadows upon its countenance. Withdraws, contains itself, achieves critical mass, implodes. Shards of light travel outwards, fusing, melding and finally a cataclysm. Light manifests as energy, its matrix. Reverberates, creating heat, informing the cold, dark void of its presence, atoms dance within its thermal resonance. Fire arises, the light of consciousness, a whisper within a womb of light. Beholds itself, a shadow being of light emitting sparks, coruscating down bright corridors of becoming. Fuses with the immensity of the ocean and dreams of another. A means of definition, of differentiation. To create a matrix, its energy to another’s form. As the power of life it moves ever inwards, spiralling to the core of silence, its origin and outwards to all things, its destiny. In the larva flow of its being conceives of a form and enters it. Burning brightly, flame red and gold to the darkness beyond. Heat at its core, frost at its surface it moves towards the light that draws it ever closer, its source. It beholds its former self, wrapped in the sackcloth of memory. Alighting upon a cliff

face, carved out of the aethyr itself, rests and beholds the vista before it. A barrenness that it would fill, yet in its dark mood, its dark nature it broods. It, the creator would create another to know itself. II Aqua Bella Mater Precipitation, moisture, the ocean roils as the plasma hits, first the surface, laced with a filigree of light. Penetrating to the cold depths of incalculable mystery below. Meets ice. Movement, as the plasma, crackling with the ice and moisture that surrounds it, threatens to engulf it, finally yields. The first of many meetings that will unfold through time. The eternal sky god, lord of the lightning flash meeting his consort within the icy depths of oceans embrace. Within their embrace they cavort and of their contortions, each yielding but a little to the other, ice melts, plasma diffuses. And of their embrace arises a heat, warmth that rises to the surface as bubbles of light, breaks the surface as a spume of golden light and the first of things is released and given the name Nemesis. Takes its freedom flight and is seen no more. Many arose from their union, the time of echoes was unfolding, would continue to unfold through the long aeons ahead. Deity now reflected upon another and in the appearance of duality, knew itself completed. Yet it was a generous being and would grant life, multiple forms through which it could witness itself, and into each of its forms it signs its name. In the signing lay the hope of realisation, that its creatures might know of their source. This its compassion, this its female form. For as substance, it could only exist in its female form, for as lord of the lightning’s it could only devour its offspring. No nurturing, no protection or love could it offer, for these were properties unknown to it. And in this way was the marriage between the elements of the prima mater consummated. III Aethyr Congressus Cum Daemon And the first of things, Nemesis, came into being. Borne aloft upon the pinions of dreams did it fly through ecstasy upon ecstasy. Its substance the very air itself through which it also passed, at its heart a lightning bolt of golden hue and upon its surface the ice of its mother, in fusion a mist of golden light presaged its arrival and the perfume of oceans depth and the endless infinity of the star spangled void. Lord of light was its assumed name, for it knew no other. This would suffice. It would be the very lifeblood and soul of all that followed during the unfolding of days. Would inspire and bring to freedom each of the sentient forms that were yet to come into being. Adonai in the palace of the heart. Nemesis within the citadel of its mind.

Lord of light, bright Lucifer, herald of the dawn, lord of the world. Its consort it would seek and of their union creation would continue to unfold and in the union with its bride would it bring life to lifelessness. IV The Bride of Adonai In the brightness of the void lay one of beauty, slumbering within the velvet embrace of eternal night. Whispers of promise blooming within her heart. A smile upon her pale lips. Lips awaiting a kiss, whereon life would dawn. And in her slumbers she dreams deeply and of her dreams a mist arises, violet and gold. A symphony of celestial joy, as another echo reverberates along the corridors of eternity. Her body dances, held aloft within the embrace of space and from her womb, time arises. For she is fertile, mother to all form, daughter of the infinite depths of ocean and of the sky lord, her consort. Now she rises and embraces the air itself, suffused with a radiance of golden light, he, her lover and consort created to fulfil creations dream. The Nexus or Fifth Element 00 The four watch towers established within the void, their sentinels alert, the four echoes reverberating through the dimensions of time and space. A tower of lightning illuminating the eternal night with its incandescence. One of oceanic blue and green casting its reflections into the void. Another of golden aethyr, a lattice of light and wraithlike form . And finally one of opal, its hues oscillating with the splendour of nature’s unfolding. Fusion takes place and the dance begins anew. Each tower radiating its essence into the void, chromatically meeting at the nexus point. A symphony of sound, the crack of lightning’s blast, the deep susurration of ocean’s depths, the rush of zephyrs ecstasy, the hearts beat of the bride. And at the point of union the spiral of life’s song begins to unfold its tale to eternity, its witness. The Second Becoming 0 She stirs from her slumbers, gazes into the void. Her form now diffuse, mist upon the lattice of her web. The echoes travelling to her inform her that her work is all but done. Only one last act to perform. And with the passing of her final breath she emits a song of joy and enters dissolution, the final dream. Her essence released, she enters creations mantle and dreams within the heart of her children, silent, unseen, unknown. Only eternity knows of her presence and with a sigh, it too enters dissolution and the time of dreams.

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o one foretold it, conceived as it was deep within the heart of a sickened mind

that had dreamed and executed an ill conceived scheme of life. Rising from the time of the first echoes it alone claimed dominion and in its anguish built a palace of despair, where solitary, it wove its spells and awaited the time when life would evolve and then it would claim its legacy. The aeons passed marked only by starlight, its only companion. Demiurgos was the first to breach the silence and of its howling life spawned its minions upon the night of time that it would not suffer alone. The best of these it rose to the station of angel and of the detritus it shaped its demons. Upon the stage that served as its reflection it cast both angel and demon and in the void that existed between them it cast the sentient ape that possessed of speech would compose the books of life and death. The telling of the tale was long in its execution for an age created but a page, scribed in blood and longing. Demiurgos looked upon its work and though satisfied with the efforts of its scribes would witness more of this pageant which as its sole entertainment failed to satiate its eternal hunger. Its scribes gazing into the heavens cast a question into the void and the gods, spawn of the titans rose and gifted built heaven and enshrined the eternal vision into its fabric. Being of a nature vain it looked upon its creation and was pleased. All that was absent was an adoring audience, those who would worship the majesty of its creation and these it scribed with blood and breath and sent forth into its Eden. To say its Eden would be untrue for like all vain creatures it had but inherited it, from where and whence it knew not, dare not, for that would challenge its dignity, its authority, no, better to cloud that thought and dissolve it within its breath, the very breath which filled its minions that they would share the ignobility of sin. The stage set, the pageant unfolds and who would serve as its witness? Nemesis, its mirror, who hung upon the aethyrs, a wisp, a presence born of shadows and memory. Memory, though a dull blade would serve, The surface pierced and the depths attained, a figure emerges and though she lies within her grave dreaming it is she who will traverse The Vale Of Tears. Now complete is the circuit as the Archon, figured as Demiurgos reflects its fleeting shadow into the one named Damiana and with this final act truth and fiction truly become the pylons upon which are hung the jewels of reason. Incarnation upon incarnation unfolded as her memory honed itself into a blade that would cut away oblivions bitter gall until resplendent in robes of bone white lace she stands at the threshold. Gone the long days of yearning. Gone also the eternal nights of remorse. Solitary she stands within paradise. Before her the tree of knowledge around whose roots the serpent slumbers. Behind her the tree of life perfumes the air

with its intoxicating blossom. To her right and left the sentinels of life and death scribe their words upon vellum gold, etched in blood drawn from the veins of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eternal witnesses. Above her the stars whisper to each other across the vast tracts of time and space and beneath her naked feet the mother yet slumbers within her vale of immanence. Damiana enters life and with each passing breath she is raised into visions embrace and born aloft upon wings of poesy. The Archon sighs as Demiurgos, now vanquished enters the citadel of forgetfulness, where like a wraith he gives his final breath to the night and as dust rises upon the air and is no more. Damiana walks the vale shrouded by a mantle deep as night and this she wraps firmly around her as if it were all that bound her to flesh. Her breath mists as it touches the night air, the gentlest of embraces as the rays of a gentle moon transfix her attention, its rays, lumescent arrows pierce her flesh and where touched, she burns. Was it so long ago that she lay within her grave dreaming? Was it so long ago that as the first amongst the Selim she graced the world with her presence? And was it so long ago that as the first of things she took her maiden flight as Nemesis? All this her history carried her upon its ebb and flow and brought her to this moment and its attendant awareness. The ocean, its salt tang upon the air called to her and towards it and her fate she stepped lightly upon the moss that softened the rocky terrain across which she walked. Descending by a path carved into the cliffs she comes to rest upon hopes golden sand and takes her rest. The night, still, expectant as if a host of seraphim held the moment in their bleached white hands. Damiana rests her gaze upon the horizon which shimmers with a golden light and before her eyes two opalescent pillars rise from the waves crowned by an arc that holds the moon within its horns. The moment deepens as her eyes are pierced by the rays that travelling towards her turn her skin into a shimmering mirror of opal light and before her the lady of the hunt extends her hands in greeting. Palms upwards, two figures dance upon them in their rapture, she a ladye fayre dressed in pure white lace and he a harlequin in motley of black and gold.



nd as she experiences this vision Damiana travels through time and where once

golden sand lay beneath her feet now they feel the counters of pebbles which send spasms of delight through her limbs. Turning from the oceans view she glimpses, as if through a veil two figures seated, leaning against the sea wall. They gaze out to sea and between them, nestled against the chill air a child sleeps. The moon hangs silven above a sea of ebony. Waves become as mercury undulate, caught within the grip of the huntress. They behold the vision that Damiana travelled through time to share. As she gazes upon them they in turn gaze upon her and wave a greeting. Damiana walks towards them and dissolves into the rapture of the moment and now her sight becomes that of the ones abroad this night beneath the velvet light of Diana. They arc their heads and touch and where once there were four souls now there is but one. As their essence rises upon the night air the aethyrs, burnished gold, shimmer and space folds upon itself as across the mountains of the moon they walk. Flesh, once solid becomes a liquid mist of opalescent light. Eyes, once blue turn violet stained gold. Naked beneath the moon and stars they advance across the silven plain and enter a cave carved deep into the mountains and at its heart a quicksilver pool, limned with sulphur, emits a vibration that causes the air to shimmer. The pool ripples as it accepts the visitors into its depths. The vision of remembrance complete the Reflection that is the mind of Pan adorns them as a mantle that holds time and space within its folds. The first mask is made manifest and with it the avatar draws his first breath and looks upon the scene that unfolds before his newly formed eyes. He stands solitary and in his heart his purpose known and yet how to achieve such a thing? When first consciousness had dawned within the reflection that served him as a soul he had discerned amongst the myriad forms that surrounded him but one who would serve as consort and complete the arc across which he would travel in quest of Heavens Gate. But that would be another time, another place. For now he would walk alone, the desolate one, prince amongst his kind and by title and name, Samael. Avatar of the light that burns the lie from creations mantle, light that burns black for it is the light of Solus Noir and he bathes in its rays that burn as vitriol within his veins and of the toxin that formulates deep within his heart he would endure, would prevail for the book of prophecy had etched his form, his time in cyphers drawn from the heart of Lammae Rouge, the blood moon, his counterpart, enfleshed as the beloved with whom conjoined the portal would manifest upon the shores of night within the fabled city. For now he would endure and prepare for the time ahead through which he must pass.

The Mountains Of The Moon dissolved before his gaze and upon the night air but a whisper was to be heard, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Come For I Await Thee.â&#x20AC;? Her perfume filled his nostrils as he drew the rags that served as raiment around his emaciated body. The cave now behind him, he walks the shoreline drawing the salt tang of the night air into his lungs. An aeon he would wait, solitary within his citadel, honed from the stone that served as his heart. Its halls shaped from the dreams that informed his vision. Of his blood were the cyphers of becoming forged. His body, the quill with which time etched its memory upon the membrane of life. His breath shaped desire and by hand and eye he cast it upon the aethyrs. His vision gifted within the mountains now served as his beacon within this the night of time. Samael drew the twin masks that served as his reflection across his face and became invisible. The first, his true nature, served as the healing angel, the lord of light that blessed life and celebrated it in all its myriad aspects. This mask he would hold deep within the chambers of his heart, lest he forget. The second he donned as a helm and became the warrior, the avenger who served only justice and with this mask would he seduce, avenge and ultimately destroy for it had been forged by the Archons at the dawn of time and he, avatar, bathed in the elixir, the venom of prophecy would hold the seven bowls of wrath and these he weave into the farce known by all as creation. Know me for I dwell in the deepest chambers of what yet remains of your heart. Did I not whisper seductively into the stream of your life when first you drew breath? Did I not celebrate your perceived victories and hold you to my breast when woe stained the unfolding dance that is your life? And will I not call to you when with your final breath you surrender yourself into my eternal embrace? Samael advanced and the shoreline dissolved beneath his feet as he surrendered and destiny drew aside her veil and revealed that which was to come.



any names had adorned her across the vast sea of time. Many shapes had

she assumed and these reflected themselves into the vault that was remembrance as she sat within her vale. Around her life resolved itself into her awareness and she celebrated each passing moment, each atom of form for her name was Beauty. The vale in which she sat, her home, had been called Eden and she its mistress. Banished were the trees of knowledge and life. Gone the sentinels of life and death. Even the stars had retreated and their whispers no longer broke the pristine silence. Aphrodite, her false name, beheld the one advancing towards her across the grassland that was her portal and she sighed. His form, unpleasing to her, she would shape in the cauldron of her heart. Hone him into an instrument of her will and adorn him with vestment that best served their purpose. Samael gazed in awe at the vision of beauty that stood before him. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I am the Attraction you seek, that which serves as the heart of Pan,â&#x20AC;? she whispered and with these words he fell to his knees before her. The first veil fell from her and natures bounty celebrated in the cathedrals of the forested glade. The second fell from her limbs and the oceans roiled into existence and in their chthonic depths sentience stirred. The third veil fell and was cast upwards and the heavens came to be. The fourth fell and of its substance were the stars themselves dreamed into being and the whispers began. The fifth veil fell from her heart and a chorus of seraphim, throats taut, sang their plainsong upon the night air. The sixth fell from her lips and Agape rose. The seventh veil fell from her eyes and before the kneeling form of Samael stood the beloved, the golden one, Namrael. The second mask manifest and into the outstretched palm of Namrael the avatar placed his heart.



endered by some as the abyss with its attendant Archon of dispersion. Others

have named it limbo, a point of transition. Yet others in accordance with their ability have called it many things for us it is the sands of the burning grounds wherein all is transformed. Our Triangle Of Arte entered. Our evocations sent forth we, the devotee have waited, waited down the long years and now the avatars cross the burning sands of The Boundary Lands. The portal of transition shimmered seductively on the horizon and with each step taken the flesh fell from his bones, bones which in turn became as dust. Now only dim memory remained as the rays of the portal consumed what yet remained of his consciousness. The avatars conjoined advanced and with the transition completed they were rendered into a cypher that burned with the light and heat of a sun torn from the fabric of space. The cypher danced upon the sand, ascended to the clouds above and fell as rain upon the burning sands below. Each drop leeched into the parched earth became as tears and from them sprang root and stem, flower and seed. What had once been desert now, transformed became our Eden as we walked hand in hand through its flower carpeted hills. The Archon of dispersion bowed his head and from deep within the folds of his robed he drew a dagger and this he gave to the avatars that would be warded in these foreign and exotic lands. Limbo folded upon itself and the middle realms came into being. The burning grounds now a verdant paradise and at its heart the mother lay dreaming and of her dreams life was created and cast upon the skin of time. The third mask manifests and as the Crystallisation serves as the mind of Pan and this the avatars place upon the earth. Removing the masks yet worn they place these upon the earth and configure the triangle of arte that alone will summon their completion. Lines are etched between the masks. One of carbon ash. One of the petals of the rose that are rosa mundi and the third of river sand drawn from the sacred font into which it takes its rest. The triangle complete the avatars step into its embrace and disappear leaving only their perfume upon the air.



ir once still, stirred. A low emission as of suppressed thunder laced with

lightning broke the silence. A vortex appears and at its heart the lightning radiated from a still centre and through this the avatars step. Enfleshed once more surrounded by a nimbus of black light laced with lightning the colour of blood. Adjusting their senses they survey their surroundings and find themselves atop a promontory overlooking a void across which they must pass for in the far distance almost invisible on the horizon The Fabled City awaits them. Into the void they step, hand in hand and the scene shifts to that of grassland leading into a forest deep as night. Entering the forest, trees bow their heads in welcome and along the path appointed they walk. Across a stream, the welcoming coolness of its waters revive them and into the hills, guided only by whispers upon the air. A cave presents itself and at its entrance a guardian of fabled legend draws aside the veil and bids them enter. Along a corridor they walk flanked by room after room depicting various stages of decay and desolation. These they pass unheeded. At the end of the corridor suspended, hang two mirrors of dimensions infinite. The hall of reflections, where all is measured is entered and with a single strike from the dagger they carried the mirrors are shattered and thus ends the treasure house of images. The one remaining image, that of the ocean claims them and into its embrace they step. Ocean gives way to zephyr as across its memory they soar on wings opalescent. Landing they cross yet another desert, a desert of carmine sand beneath a black sun. An avenue of columns depicting strange and exotic creatures upon their surfaces opens upon a vast courtyard and their before them stands the portal of the fabled city and this they enter.

Babalon The Fair Seven gateways gained entrance to the fabled city and of these seven gateways were created seven palaces. Seven palaces of initiation, forever open, forever sealed. The first gateway was named the kingdom of the bride and above its portal in cyphers of gold were inscribed the sigils of abundance and permanence. Of the second gateway was created a vast ocean of amniotic fluid, wherein was placed the foundation of the world. Into it were woven the spells of bright Diana and dark Hecate and above the portal inscribed in silver were the cyphers of life and death. The third portal, a double helix, time and space, woven with the spells of Mercurius and radiant Aphrodite and above were inscribed the sigils Solve et Coagula.

And of the fourth portal, a rainbow bridge into, travelling into infinity unfolding its splendour in the names and spells of brave Horus and just Amoun, and above its portal inscribed were the cyphers, by the sword and by the sceptre, know me. The fifth portal, a palace of force and form, a singularity containing within its heart annihilation. Into its matrix were woven the spells of Shiva and Shakti and above its portal were hung the coils of the mighty serpent, Ananta. And the sixth portal, a vacuum, for none might enter, for it was the gateway to the overworld of heaven. Cursed as an abomination throughout eternity. No spells were woven, no sigils, only the vacuum existed. The seventh portal, a mighty void, the place of crossing and into its fabric were woven the spells of Uranus and the lightning bolts of his coming and above its portal were inscribed the cyphers of eternity, knowledge and mystery. The avatars considered the pathways open to them and after consideration entered the second gateway in fond memory of the mountains of the moon they had crossed and in fond memory of the love they shared with their patron, the huntress and lady of the night, Artemis.



ntering the second gateway the avatars dissolved into the embrace of

Oceaniaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s womb and the double helix of life and death coursed through their veins, limned golden. Death smiled while life, like a maiden fair upon her bed of roses, coyly looked aside. Their forms reconstituted, consecrated by the mothers embrace they rose from the depths and there they stood within a vast hall. The floor a patina of opal light supporting columns which stretched into the heavens, their crowns brushing the stars whose whispers rose to song and that song became the celestial symphony whose notes told the story of the second creation. Before them a raised dais upon which two pylons, one white and one black crowned by an arc of gold stood sentient. Lightning coursed between them ebon and blood red and where the hues melded a sea of atoms danced upon the aethyr. The avatars ascended the dais and hand in hand entered the sea of atoms and dispersed their forms and remembering the time they had danced upon the upturned palms of Artemis surrendered themselves to the vortex. Eyes became opal suns. Bodies became as the stardust that holds creation with its embrace and of their hearts were galaxies formed.


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The masks rise from the void and as they turn upon their axis the Triangle Of Arte formulates itself and there at its centre the avatars behold Heavens Gate.



ight In Extension. Khabs Am Pekht. Konx Om Pax. The avatars entered

Heavens Gate and space condensed into a single molecule. Time folded upon itself and eternity entered the tiny mote that hung in the void. Infused, diffused and became light. The arc spiraled upwards and outwards coagulated a reflection and this the avatars entered and spilled their essence into the ocean of form. Soaring heavenwards upon the wings of an eagle they beheld the infinite. Diving deep the fin of the dolphin breaks the surface and they dance. Unfurling, the petals exude the perfume of Grace and Rosa Mundi, a rainbow dipped in liquid amber, and they witness eternity. Roots deep within the earth the embrace of the mother holds them to her breast. Upon a lightning bolt they travel and earth and sky are united as a host of seraphim rejoice at their becoming.





















" â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; The Reader Forgive me, for my time here has been short, and the skills required to convey my meaning are of recent origin. Yet my task is simple enough. To penetrate the ambience of difference that surrounds us and enter your world. A world in which, through the use of words I might weave my spell. Create pathways for your insights, guide your sense of meaning. To see through the veil of your eyes. To cast language into the vortex of your imagination. To feel the flow of meaning cascading down the long corridors of our separation, bringing us to a point of similarity, cohesion and contact. Like autumn leaves, falling, one then another and another. Each celebrating its final burst of life, only then to fade in memory and enter forgetfulness. To be dispersed upon wind, carried aloft, a memory remembered, to fall once again. To be no more.

Each leaf a passing moment, a passing thought, a sensation that eases the loneliness of eternity. Marking each act unique, distinct, etched in flesh, dissolved in blood. Have we not met in dreams? Have I not whispered and cast cyphers of yearning into your heart. Woven myself through the ebb and flow of the passing of breath. Does your pulse, not echo to the memory of our meetings? Have you not dreamed of the world, and in those dreams have we not embraced, held hands and parted with a tender kiss? Perhaps our tale begins one summer night. Lost in thought as we climb the hill before us. The grass swaying, lulled by the caress of a gentle breeze. The sound of our footsteps, soft yet firm, responding to the solidity of the Earth beneath our feet. Perhaps the shadows captivate our attention, momentarily calling us to the surface of awareness, as we also hear the distant hoot of an owl, wings spread upon the velvet night. Perhaps we have travelled far, to arrive at this place, this time of mystery? The air stills and we sit beneath starry splendour. The trunk of a tree supports our back, the feel of grass and earth beneath us. Hands clasp knees as we raise our heads to the heavens. And what thoughts are the thoughts that pass before the mirror of our awareness? The tapestry of our life unfolds before us.


We Do Not Dust The Nightmare That Is Existence With The Opiate Of Meaning Damiana Evohe

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! A Psalm Of Life

What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream. For the soul is dead that slumbers and things are not what they seem. Life is real. Life is earnest and the grave is not its goal. Dust thou art, to dust returnest was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment and not sorrow is our destined end or way. But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today. Art is long and Time is fleeting and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle. In the bivouac of Life, be not like dumb, driven cattle. Be a hero in the strife. Trust no Future, how’re pleasant. Let the dead Past bury its dead. Act,— act in the living Present. Heart within, and God o'erhead. Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime and departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time. Footprints, that perhaps another, sailing o'er life's solemn main, a forlorn and shipwrecked brother, seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate, still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [ 1807 – 1882 ]



The Well Of Souls But one soul forged in the depths of infinite night, cast upon an anvil of rusted iron, screams in anguish as the hammer falls upon its now tarnished and shattered self. Spark upon spark greets the night and unity is sundered as the deathshead, life is released and the tumbling sparks fall to oblivion within the heart of creations font. Silence, no more as the procession leaves the hall of wonders and embarks upon the downward spiral that raises it to form and casts it ever more upon the shores of infinite day. The one true soul now a thing of multitude dons the mask of legion and wages war against itself in the name of reason. Generation upon generation fall beneath the shadow cast by its lies and deceit. Know me, it screams unto the heavens until its voice, now a bloodied thing, drips its toxin upon the burnished aethyrs that in their travail whisper forgiveness to the wayward sons and daughters it spawned. The hammer falls and the drumbeat of its strikes upon the one true soul become the heartbeat from which a god is formed and as it rises from the shriveled flesh that served as its host it casts its gaze upon all and claims dominion and the eastern horizon, its home and destination quakes beneath the footsteps that fall upon its once proud visage. And within that land that time has long forgotten it drove its sword into the heart of the mother and of her blood a well did form and from that day until the end of days itself, The Well Of Souls sends forth its emissaries and of the whispers that are their lives a tapestry is woven and hung in the hall of remembrance within the fabled city. The one true soul now an endless reflection gazes deep into memory and forges a diamond brightness that like smoke enters the heart of legion and plants the seed of causality and reason, now a brute awareness shakes its fist and striking the earth with its now broken hand calls forth justice and into its presence, upon a bolt of lightning it appears and the world that is but an appearance falls to the dust from whence it came and the one true soul, in its eternal travail sighs and knows relief as with its last dying spark is the well of souls filled to overflowing.

An Ocean Of Stars How is it to be measured, the silence that reigned? In the absence of anything there is no way that we might comprehend this pristine state or how long it had endured for time and space were yet to be. Those that are designated creationists are comfortable with the certainty of their gods and all cultures have sat and fed from this table. Evolutionists likewise are comfortable with their science and absent the need of faith celebrate their own god, reason. Doubtless whilst appearing sophisticated we can but gaze in awe upon the nature of reality. Of one thing we may be certain, there is the unknown which we are permitted to breach and thus extend the realm of the known and this we have achieved over the millennia of our existence, albeit a blink of the eye in the grander scheme of things. Whilst the continents of the known and unknown continue their war upon the unknowable they can but realize the futility of their acts for their combined mass is but a mote in the eye of an infinity that comprehends them not. The Hebrew conceived of the veils, Ain Soph Aur, Ain Soph and Ain, the nothing not as pre existent to the possibility of manifested time and space and yet this simplistic understanding bears little resemblance to what might be deemed truth. Mystery is all that stands within the realm of being and we but a tiny part within that mystery, equal to a stone, a tree, a creature of the realms of the elements, a planet, a star, a galaxy, a god. Whether philosopher, cleric or simple men and women we have but our perception and the filters that attend it. Awareness dawns and we can but celebrate our paradigms and thereby keep the dark night away from our soul state and rise within the currents of consciousness. Awareness, like all manifested forms follows the path of its own evolution and we can but pray that enlightenment dawns at some inconceivable point in the, as perceived, future. For this to exist as a possibility we have but to survive our own nature and in the meanwhile accept the only reality that bears a resemblance to a truth. There exists but An Ocean Of Stars.

The Sands Of Time Long had it hung, suspended in the void between the twin pylons of life and death. Golden light formed its matrix, a double helix in appearance held within its embrace the likeness of twin globes of crystal. The topmost globe filled to the brim with diamond dust released at the turn of each aeon a single grain that descending entered the lower globe and took its place amongst its kind. Seven grains lay within its realm and all life and death were contained within its embrace. Had we the wit to examine each grain our dull senses, overwhelmed, would succumb to the sleep of the ages that attends all hubris. The first six grains we cannot speak of for their duration exists beyond the realm of our comprehension. It is to the seventh that we direct our gaze and upon its multi faceted surface we witness the passing of human history. Every living soul has etched its story upon its refracted surface and this we deem a god. Of the grains, infinite in number, that remain held within the topmost globe, likewise, we cannot speak of for they like those that preceded our own grain exist beyond our small comprehension. They bear the signatures of gods yet to be and hold their secrets close within the chambers of their, for now, dreaming hearts. As we lay within the globe that has passed we can but witness the passing of our kind and though memory holds our world intact it be as a miasma formed of toxic fumes that dulls the senses and manifests the appearance of a life and world. A life and world that passes into the hall of remembrance and like all ghosts ultimately fade to gray. Sic Transit Gloria Rosa Mundi serves as our epitaph. Five syllables that define our time and the nature of the tapestry we have woven, through endless time, upon the creations pristine visage. How might we be remembered? How might we be known? A mote of dust of short duration that fell to the sword of justice or as a being of noble intent? The choice, as ever, is ours and history will record this upon the grain of diamond dust that serves as our totality.

A Poets Lament By Grace Alone Is All Redeemed Grace alone is the marker by which we measure a soul. As a quality subtle and yet possessed of a strength that transcends all of its pretenders. Hope becomes a hollow whisper cast upon deaf aethyrs. Faith dare not present itself. Charity its sister holds out its hand in friendship. Knowledge bends its knee and averts its gaze. Power dissolves in a lake of divine nectar. It is grace alone that grants us vision and entrance into the fabled city and by grace do we enter Edenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gates. The grace that attends nature is self evident and the nobility of the children of the goddess. Were we to possess but a sliver of grace we would be shamed into silence. However lacking grace, displaced as it were, we fall back to hollow attributes, blow our horns of triumph and strut across the holy one as if she were ours to claim as dominion. Shame upon us. The clever, the wise, the powerful know naught of grace for their self importance blinds them to reality and whilst they dream their vision of success, bloated they drift upon the current and enter oblivion, the natural domain of such. The innocent upon whose lips is the nectar distilled, though they drink of an ocean of tears and pass through the fires of redemption their hearts remain true and as children they walk the surface of the bright globe and are blessed by the rays of an ever present sun, moon and stars. An age but sustains few, if any, for as mirrors they go forth and into their reflective surfaces are the true likenesses of all revealed. Some have been avatars and paid the price of blood for their labours. Others raise their visors and become invisible and of these we know not. By the embrace of grace are the faltering steps guided. The lost souls reclaimed and the innocent cast into the plenitude that is Eden, our heaven upon the earth.

Somnium Scipionis 1

When I arrived in Africa, to serve, as you know, in the

office of military Tribune of the fourth Legion, under Manius, Manilius as consul, I desired nothing so much as to meet Masinissa who stood in the most friendly relation to our family. When I came to him, the old man embraced me with tears, and shortly afterward looked up to heaven and said: "I thank thee, sovereign Sun, and all of you lesser lights of heaven, that before I pass away from this life I behold in my kingdom and beneath this roof Publius Cornelius Scipio, whose very name renews my strength, so utterly inseparable from my thought is the memory of that best and most invincible of men who first bore it." Then I questioned him about his kingdom, and he asked me about our republic; and with the many things that we had to communicate to each other, the day wore away. At a later hour, after an entertainment of royal magnificence, we prolonged our conversation far into the night, while the old man talked to me about nothing else but Africanus, rehearsing not only all that he had done, but all that he had said. When we parted to go to our rest, sleep took a stronger hold on me than usual, on account both of the fatigue of my journey and of the lateness of the hour. In my sleep, I suppose in consequence of our conversation (for generally our thoughts and utterances by day have in our sleep an effect like that which Ennius about whom in his waking hours he was perpetually thinking and talking), Africanus appeared to me, with an aspect that reminded me more of his bust than of his real face. I shuddered when I saw him. But he said: "Preserve your presence of mind, Scipio; be not afraid, and commit to memory what I shall say to you.


"Do you see that city, which was brought through me into subjection to the

Roman people, but now renews its old hostility, and cannot remain quiet," -- and he showed me Carthage from a high place full of stars, shining and splendid, -- "against which you, being little more than a common soldier, are coming to fight? In two years from now you as Consul will overthrow this city, and you will obtain of your

own right the surname which up to this time you hold as inherited from me. When you shall have destroyed Carthage, shall have celebrated your triumph over it, shall have been Censor, and shall have traversed, as an ambassador, Egypt, Syria, Asia, and Greece, you will be chosen a second time Consul in your absence, and will put an end to one of the greatest of wars by extirpating Numantia. But when you shall be borne to the Capitol in your triumphal chariot after this war, you will find the State disturbed by the machinations of my grandson. "In this emergency, Africanus, it will behoove you to show your country the light of your energy, genius, and wisdom. But I see at that time, as it were, a double way of destiny. For when your age shall have followed the sun for eight times seven revolutions, and these two numbers -each perfect, though for different reasons -- shall have completed for you in the course of nature the destined period, to you alone and to your name the whole city will turn; on you the Senate will look, on you all good citizens, on you the allies, on you the Latini. You will be the one man on whom the safety of the city will rest; and, to say no more, you, as Dictator, must re-establish the State, if you escape the impious hands of your kindred." Here, when Laelius had cried out, and the rest of the company had breathed deep sighs, Scipio, smiling pleasantly upon them, said, "I beg you not to rouse me from sleep and break up my vision. Hear the remainder of it."


"But that you, Africanus, may be the more prompt in the defence of the State,

know that for all who shall have preserved, succored, enlarged their country, there is a certain and determined place in heaven where they enjoy eternal happiness; for to the Supreme God who governs this whole universe nothing is more pleasing than those companies and unions of men that are called cities. Of these the rulers and preservers, going hence, return hither." Here I, although I had been alarmed, not indeed so much by the fear of death as by that of the treachery of my own kindred, yet asked whether Paulus, my father, and others whom we supposed to be dead were living. "Yes, indeed," he replied, "those who have fled from the bonds of the body, like runners from the goal, live; while what is called your life is death. But do you see your father Paulus coming to you?" When I saw him, I shed a flood of tears; but he, embracing and kissing me, forbade my weeping. Then as soon as my tears would suffer me to speak, I began by saying, "Most sacred and excellent father, since this is life, as Africanus tells me, why do I remain on the earth, and not rather hasten to come to you?" "Not so," said he; "for unless the God who has for his temple all that you now behold, shall have freed you from this prison of the body, there can be no entrance for you hither. Men have indeed been brought into being on this condition, that they should guard the globe which you see in the midst of this temple, which is called the earth; and a soul has been given to them from those eternal fires which you call constellations and stars, which, globed and round, animated with god-derived minds, complete their courses and move through their orbits with amazing speed. You, therefore, Publius, and all rightly disposed men are bound to retain the soul in

the body's keeping, nor without the command of him who gave it to you to depart from the life appointed for man, lest you may seem to have taken flight from human duty as assigned by God. But, Scipio, like this your grandfather, like me, your father, cherish justice and that sacred observance of duty to your kind, which, while of great worth toward parents and family, is of supreme value toward your country. Such a life is the way to heaven, and to this assembly of those who have already lived, and, released from the body, inhabit the place which you now see," -- it was that circle that shines forth among the stars in the most dazzling white, -- "which you have learned from the Greeks to call the Milky Way." And as I looked on every side I saw other things transcendently glorious and wonderful. There were stars which we never see from here below, and all the stars were vast far beyond what we have ever imagined. The least of them was that which, farthest from heaven, nearest to the earth, shone with a borrowed light. But the starry globes very far surpassed the earth in magnitude. The earth itself indeed looked to me so small as to make me ashamed of our empire, which was a mere point on its surface.


While I was gazing more intently on the earth, Africanus said: "How long, I

pray you, will your mind be fastened on the ground? Do you not see into the midst of what temples you have come? In your sight are nine orbs, or rather globes, by which all things are held together. One is the celestial, the outermost, embracing all the rest, -- the Supreme God himself, who governs and keeps in their places the other spheres. In this are fixed those stars which ever roll in an unchanging course. Beneath this are seven spheres which have a retrograde movement, opposite to that of the heavens. One of these is the domain of the star which on earth they call Saturn. Next is the luminary which bears the name of Jupiter, of prosperous and healthful omen to the human race; then, the star of fiery red which you call Mars, and which men regard with terror. Beneath, the Sun holds nearly the midway space, leader, prince, and ruler of the other lights, the mind and regulating power of the universe, so vast as to illuminate and flood all things with his light. Him, as his companions, Venus and Mercury follow on their different courses; and in a sphere still lower the moon revolves, lighted by the rays of the sun. Beneath this there is nothing that is not mortal and perishable, except the souls bestowed upon the human race by the gift of the gods. Above the moon all things are eternal. The earth, which is the central and ninth sphere, has no motion, and is the lowest of all, and all heavy bodies gravitate spontaneously toward it.â&#x20AC;?


When I had recovered from my amazement at these things I asked, "What is this

sound so strong and so sweet that fills my ears?" "This," he replied, "is the melody which, at intervals unequal, yet differing in exact proportions, is made by the

impulse and motion of the spheres themselves, which, softening shriller by deeper tones, produce a diversity of regular harmonies. Nor can such vast movements be urged on in silence; and by the order of nature the shriller notes sound from one extreme of the universe, the deeper from the other. Thus yonder supreme celestial sphere with its clustered stars, as it revolves more rapidly, moves with a shrill and quick strain; this lower sphere of the moon sends forth deeper notes; while the earth, the ninth sphere, remaining motionless, always stands fixed in the lowest place, occupying the centre of the universe. But these eight revolutions, of which two, those of Mercury and Venus, are in unison, make seven distinct tones, with measured intervals between, and almost all things are arranged in sevens. Skilled men, copying this harmony with strings and voice, have opened for themselves a way back to this place, as have others who with excelling genius have cultivated divine sciences in human life. But the ears of men are deafened by being filled with this melody; nor is there in you mortals a duller sense than that of hearing. As where the Nile at the Falls of Catadupa pours down from the loftiest mountains, the people who live hard by lack the sense of hearing because of the loudness of the cataract, so this harmony of the whole universe in its intensely rapid movement is so loud that men's ears cannot take it in, even as you cannot look directly at the sun, and the keenness and visual power of the eye are overwhelmed by its rays." While I marvelled at these things, I ever and anon cast my eyes again upon the earth.


Then Africanus said: "I perceive that you are now fixing your eyes on the abode

and home of men, and if it seems to you small, as it really is, then look always at these heavenly things, and despise those earthly. For what reputation from the speech of men, or what fame worth seeking, can you obtain? You see that the inhabited places of the earth are scattered and of small extent, that in the spots -- so to speak -- where men dwell there are vast solitary tracts interposed, and that those who live on the earth are not only so separated that no communication can pass from place to place, but stand, in part at an oblique angle, in part at a right angle with you, in part even in an opposite direction; and from these you certainly can anticipate no fame. "You perceive also that this same earth is girded and surrounded by belts, two of which -- the farthest from each other, and each resting at one extremity on the very pole of the heavens -- you see entirely frost-bound; while the middle and largest of them burns under the sun's intense heat. Two of them are habitable, of which the southern, whose inhabitants are your antipodes, bears no relation to your people; and see how small a part they occupy in this other northern zone, in which you dwell. For all of the earth with which you have any concern -narrow at the north and south, broader in its central portion -- is a mere little island, surrounded by that sea which you on earth call the Atlantic, the Great Sea, the Ocean, while yet, with such a name, you see how small it is. To speak only of these cultivated and well-known regions, could your name even cross this Caucasus

which you have in view, or swim beyond that Ganges? Who, in what other lands may lie in the extreme east or west, or under northern or southern skies, will ever hear your name? All these cut off, you surely see within what narrow bounds your fame can seek to spread. Then, too, as regards the very persons who tell of your renown, how long will they speak of it?


"But even if successive generations should desire to transmit the praise of every

one of us from father to son in unbroken succession, yet because of devastations by flood and fire, which will of necessity take place at a determined time, we must fail of attaining not only eternal fame, but even that of very long duration. Now of what concern is it that those who shall be born hereafter should speak of you, when you were spoken of by none who were born before you, who were not fewer, and certainly were better men? -- especially, too, when among those who might hear our names there is not one that can retain the memories of a single year. Men, indeed, ordinarily measure the year only by the return of the sun, that is, one star, to its place; but when all the stars, after long intervals, shall resume their original places in the heavens, then that completed revolution may be truly called a year. As of old the sun seemed to be eclipsed and blotted out when the soul of Romulus entered these temples, so when the sun shall be again eclipsed in the same part of his course, and at the same period of the year and day, with all the constellations and stars recalled to the point from which they started on their revolutions, then count the year as brought to a close. But be assured that the twentieth part of this year has not yet come round. "Therefore, should you renounce the hope of returning to this place in which are all things that great and excellent men can desire, of what worth is that human glory which can scarcely extend to a small part of a single year? If, then, you shall determine to look high up, and to behold continuously this dwelling and eternal home, you will neither give yourself to the flattery of the people, nor place your hope of well-being on rewards that man can bestow. Let Virtue herself by her own charms draw you to true honor. What others may say of you, regard as their concern, not yours. They will doubtless talk about you, but all that they say is confined within the narrow limits of the regions which you now see; nor did such speech as to any one ever last on into eternity, -- it is buried with those who die, and lost in oblivion for those who may come afterward.`â&#x20AC;&#x2122;


When he had spoken thus, I said, "O Africanus, if indeed for those who have

deserved well of their country there is, as it were, an open road by which they may enter heaven, though from boyhood treading in my father's steps and yours, I have done no discredit to your fame, I yet shall now strive to that end with a more watchful diligence." And he replied: "Strive indeed, and bear this in mind, that it is

not you that are mortal, but your body only. Nor is it you whom this outward form makes manifest; but every man's mind is he, -- not the bodily shape which can be pointed at by the finger. Know also that you are a god, if he indeed is a god who lives, who perceives, who remembers, who foresees, who governs and restrains and moves the body over which he is made ruler even as the Supreme God holds the universe under his sway; and in truth as the eternal God himself moves the universe which is mortal in every part, so does the everlasting soul move the corruptible body. "That, indeed, which is in perpetual movement is eternal; but that which, while imparting motion to some other substance, derives its own movement from some other source, must of necessity cease to live when it ceases to move. Then that alone which is the cause of its own motion, because it is never deserted by itself, never has its movement suspended. But for other substances that are moved this is the source, the first cause, of movement. But the first cause has no origin; for all things spring from the first cause: itself, from nothing. That indeed would not be a first cause which derived its beginning from anything else; and if it has no beginning, it never ceases to be. For the first cause, if extinct, will neither itself be born again from aught else, nor will it create aught else from itself, if indeed all things must of necessity originate from the first cause. Thus it is that the first cause of motion is derived from that which is in its nature self-moving; but this can neither be born nor die. Were it to die, the whole heaven would of necessity collapse, and all nature would stand still, nor could it find any force which could be set in movement anew from a primitive impulse.


"Since, then, that which is the source of its own movement is manifestly eternal,

who is there that can deny that this nature has been given to the soul? For whatever is moved by external impulse is soulless; but whatever has a soul is stirred to action by movement inward and its own; for this is the peculiar nature and virtue of the soul. Moreover, if it is this alone of all things that is the source of its own movement, it certainly did not begin to be, and is eternal. "This soul I bid you to exercise in the best pursuits, and the best are your cares for your country's safety, by which if your soul be kept in constant action and exercise, it will have the more rapid flight to this its abode and home. This end it will attain the more readily, if, while it shall be shut up in the body, it shall peer forth, and, contemplating those things that are beyond, abstract itself as far as possible from the body. For the souls of those who have surrendered themselves to the pleasures of the body, have yielded themselves to their service, and, obeying them under the impulse of sensual lusts, have transgressed the laws of gods and men, when they pass out of their bodies are tossed to and fro around the earth, nor return to this place till they have wandered in banishment for many ages." He departed; I awoke from sleep. Marcus Tullius Cicero

Mephistopheles Poor son of Earth, how couldst thou thus alone have led thy life, bereft of me? I, for a time, at least, have worked thy cure; thy fancy's rickets plague thee not at all. Had I not been, so hadst thou, sure, walked thyself off this earthly ball. Why here to caverns, rocky hollows slinking, Sit'st thou, as 'twere an owl a blinking? Why suck'st, from sodden moss and dripping stone, toad like, thy nourishment alone? A fine way, this, thy time to fill! A blessing drawn from supernatural fountains! In night and dew to lie upon the mountains; all Heaven and Earth in rapture penetrating; thyself to Godhood haughtily inflating; to grub with yearning force through Earth's dark marrow. Compress the six days' work within thy bosom narrow. To taste, I know not what, in haughty power, thine own ecstatic life on all things shower. Thine earthly self behind thee cast, and then the lofty instinct, thus at last, I daren't say how to pluck the final flower! Yes, thou findest that unpleasant! Thou hast the moral right to cry me "shame!" at present. One dares not that before chaste ears declare, which chaste hearts, notwithstanding, cannot spare; and, once for all, I grudge thee not the pleasure of lying to thyself in moderate measure. But such a course thou wilt not long endure; already art thou o'er excited, and, if it last, wilt soon be plighted to madness and to horror, sure. Enough of that! Thy love sits lonely yonder, by all things saddened and oppressed; her thoughts and yearning seek thee, tenderer, fonder, a mighty love is in her breast.

First came thy passion's flood and poured around her as when from melted snow a streamlet overflows. Thou hast therewith so filled and drowned her, that now thy stream all shallow shows. Methinks, instead of in the forests lording, the noble sir should find it good, the love of this young silly blood, at once to set about rewarding. Her time is miserably long; she haunts her window, watching clouds that stray o'er the old city wall, and far away. "Were I a little bird!" so runs her song, day long, and half night long. Now she is lively, mostly sad, now, wept beyond her tears; then again quiet she appears, always love mad! Thou fool, go in and comfort her! When such a head as thine no outlet knows, it thinks the end must soon occur. Hail him, who keeps a steadfast mind! Thou, else, dost well the devil nature wear. Naught so insipid in the world I find as is a devil in despair. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe



Journeys End And what journey has our erstwhile poet and scribe undertaken in corrupting the pristine purity of these pages of vellum? Silence, a far nobler path we would have traversed had it not been for the one that would drive us incessantly with her seductive whispers. Whispers that transformed our days and made rich our nights as we soared upon the wings of poesy. A task simple enough in its execution and yet we mine the jewels of the mind, revealing its very marrow as struggle we must to weave a tapestry of mystery before eyes immune to wonder. A Poets Lament, for in truth it be our only aspiration within The vale Of Tears and like those who have gone before us we but return to the dust from whence we came. Perhaps our song is heard and remembered? More likely we are consigned to the hall of oblivion and again, in truth, it be all we seek. The silence, the peace that grace alone may grant our troubled heart and mind as with unfaltering step we walk the path that destiny in her wisdom has made our own.

Closer Shed not a tear for those that have passed Cast not a sigh upon air now spent Bind not the free to your temple of woe But rather rejoice the freedom gainsaid by life In the immortal lands of deliverance Therein i dwell Damiana Evohe London July 23 2012ev 10.31am

Ah Love Wouldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;st Thou And I With Time Conspire To Shatter This Sorry Scheme Of Things Entire And Mould It Nearest The Hearts Desire Omar Khayyam

Humanity A Bloated Corpse Floating Down The River Of Its Own Success Damiana Evohe

Understand The Nature Of A Thing Marcus Aurelius

Statement A definite or clear expression of something in speech or writing.


ike many of my kind I came to this world with reservations. First that fate had

already decreed what would transpire and secondly that I was cursed with prescience and as a consequence could but witness the unfolding of things long ago etched upon the patina of fates scroll. By way of explanation and to a certain degree a confession, unlike the shadows we are not blessed by the possession of, so called, free will for this delusion exists only for those who slumber beneath a mantle formed of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s opiate. By contrast being Selim we are gestated within a womb outside the laws of nature, were such a thing possible? Our purpose, simple, to bear witness. It is our flesh that serves as parchment and of our blood is ink congealed and for this purpose are we most often manifested as poets, whose sensibilities best serve our purpose. While it is true to say that we share a human incarnation it is also true that this we shed within our first cycle and thereafter become strangers in a strange land. The whispers of our kind are recorded, sometimes as monuments that adorn the shimmering globe, sometimes as artifacts that profit your kind. More often our etchings and those magickal creatures you know simply as words record the vision that is ours alone to impart. This present incarnation first came to consciousness upon the banks of the mighty Nile, a kingdom that spawned the first of the magickal cultures that claimed dominion within the realm of being. This time we spent formulating our will and this we polished to a mirror bright and across its surface we manifested the Axiomata that would sustain us across time. The glory that was Rome suckled us until we gained our majority and with its passing did we truly mourn the departure of reason from this world. Our fondest memory is of the golden age when upon the banks of blessed Albion did we draw deep into our lungs the precious nectar of freedom and it is within this mystic isle that we have remained until this time.

Accusation From the latin, Accusare – Call to account.


istory written in your stars, unheeded.

Your acts before your eyes, unheeded. You dwell within a garden, unheeded. Raised to beauty and splendour, unheeded. Blessed by innocence, unheeded. Granted dominion and responsibility, unheeded. Freewill and choice, your conceit. Power in your world, hubris and lies. Shackled in prisons of your own creation when freedom and mystery surround you. Beauty in the wings of a butterfly. Majesty in the gait of the panther. Innocence in the eyes of a child. And yet … … … ? Justice do we serve and our sister blesses us in her travails eternal. Look into the mirror of your form, cast aside the veil of ignorance and know these as the end of days.

Solus noir 6  

Canticles De Arte Magicka Volume 2 no. 3