A Man's End

A Man's End

A story I write through unkown paths.
Initially, by intent, dedicated to write not for, but as inspiration, a person in mind, as I had an ending in sight, now losing in my heart, I will see wherever the road leads, if it does.



Part 1

A man’s worth,
a woman’s chamber


A misty coldness over the land upon which one wooden cabin stood in its loneliness, breathing out smoke from the hearth; surrounded by grassy lands without a people, on its turn surrounded by a thick forest of mostly oaks and ashes. On one side however, there was a lake always covered by a blanket of dense spirits, with or without wind, the ghostly clouds were always on the move as if the lake was a sunken market, where all was mute but the ravens’ wings and the silence speaking by itself as when a prey had noticed too late its hunter and freezes without a breath.

A man lived there of an age praised for livelihood and way of the sword, brought up by the gods themselves as were the rumours in distant towns, for how they know; the man occasionally visited the pigeon towns, as he thought of them in that manner, to attend festivals in honour to thunder, war, love, wind, ancestors – all through dance, song and battle contests; as the greatest poet living by the words he sing, the warrior by the sword he will swing for the cause of his people, and the dancer by expressing the season’s colours - through the word as witness and oath, sword and axe for blood and land, and rhythm of steps and season, they were the very offerings themselves next to the selected cows, sheep and slaves.

He was the best of all in all, not known but for his actions and solitude by which they wondered how he gained such skills with no one other to practise and judge; so were the gods to challenge him as a way of upbringing, so they spoke.

One night the poet by sword and dance saw his destiny to choose witnessed in the stars, as they spoke of his death, to die in battle is to live among eternal strive and arts with the gods, to die a pigeon’s death is to be forgotten, to rot away in the earth alike verses that will never be spoken for the men to come to take guidance from.

The next morning he ate and drank, packed his bread, meat, wine and left behind all but his spirit which is his body, his armour and his sword from forgotten times; he wandered from town to town and lived by people’s hospitability which he rewarded with his presence, if not, nature was his home and the trees his coat against rain and as the leaves started to fall, the snow to follow in a distant time, he had his wolf skins to live the way of the howling moon.

Far away already from land and in time, he crossed paths of many in high orders; as a bard he began to sing for the loss of a local king’s life to the left behind beauty now in mourning with the people in the Great Hall:

‘’Do not river your tears,
For your king will be reared,
Your stomach has the seed
For many to harvest in later years;
Your husband among the Great Ones
Your child to come for you to lead,
The battle to come …’’

And so he sang and so they ate swine and drunk on wine and beer and forget their tears in joy for what was to come.

Another place, another time, guest in a great village known for its youth, now known for women who lost their men far away to protect what they left behind; their women, daughters and wives, whose feature is to please men who have spilled their fathers’, sons’ and husbands’ lives on the earth for the crows to eat.

A beautiful young woman begged to help which silenced all others’ their pleading, for when beauty speaks it needs only silence or a breeze to be heard and felt:

‘’Wanderer, we have received signs from the skies beyond ours’, for the crows are descending from lands unknown and blackened our hearts, the time has told us that not our men are to return and celebrate the fallen ones and our future in beyond our lives, for the singing of our men in the wind would have rejoiced our hearts already – it are men who’ve slaughtered our future of peace and grandchildren after we would have birthed ours’, for the crows to eat their flesh and the winter to freeze what remains of them; they are on their way for their claim of our wombs which they will take without our souls. I beg, lead us elsewhere, fight them with yours by the gods given strength and wisdom, sing them to the end of our world with your voice no match for flute and drum giving the rhythm of steps to march on – By the gods, I will marry you and bear your children in loyalty, even in my grave my frozen lips will have your name on them.’’

The guest thanked her trust and their kindness of care, while staying along the road of his death in their village known for youth and spoke:

‘’Women and girls, young and lesser young, I can be of no help for you are the treasure for which many would fight for and have already done so, on their way to your new homes which are of the ancestors of your new men, after burning your old homes; whether I lead you here or there, you cannot hide for your men’s failing who have abandoned you, though with honour and no intent to leave you at such a fate - even the gods would plunder your hearts into despair for new children for you to bear, I would bring mere misery upon the earth by drowning flowers in blood of armies and gods ready to give life in your bodies through force, or your fear to resist the key to the chambers of treasure and fruits, for a key is easily replaced by a ram.

Most beautiful girl of this great village known for its youth, soon for its cries and destiny in verse of victor, honoured I am but cannot fulfil our bonding, I can tell you your fate however: You will be married above mere pleasure, to the highest of their order and give birth to children who will be loyal to the blood of same kin we are but a different clan you despise, thus will be your lot, strengthening your enemy’s future, slaughterer of your beloved men.’’

And so he left and so he heard the echoing in distance like snow resonating the sun in the night by the moon’s reflection; and the stars shining their lights by which ancient spirits, our ancestors forgotten in verse and memory, we are in body merely, took guidance and counsel from – the haunting cries of young women being hunted down and blazing fires feeding on wood built to blaze hearths and sleep dreaming of the next day’s dreams to fulfil as memories; to pass on from family to family.

The most beautiful of the great village, the place now known for its cries and women’s lamenting, was about to take her own life, or to flee, she did not know what to do, the words of the wanderer, could they be countered, or was his tongue as are his deeds, inevitable as thunder following the lightning.

A man broke through the door, followed by three others but they were as if they were not, for the first one to enter was a man of great stature, had a most hardened face, broad, tall, a beard as if it was a second face, that of a bear hungering for flesh; he wore no helmet but thick layers of animal skins over his body, a shield and an axe - an image as if the old Giants had escaped the mountain’s glaciers and collapsed upon the earth’s surface.
She was with her younger sister who was of an age soon to be regarded as fruitful, not yet; the first one to enter grabbed her younger sister and tossed her to the three men behind him, and the worst of what is to a woman’s her value, was dishonoured and ravished the heart as much as it did her soul, for the soul is seated in the stomach, and in woman, in her womb she transfers to her children, the soul in child with a man forcefully to fuse, or simply her dignity distrusted for the sake of treasure to please the inexhaustible energy of the aftermath of an victorious battle.

Their destiny was sealed, for a fruitful woman cannot hide for the man’s sword and key, what to think after taste of blood, it erects the man’s will to subjugate and penetrate into the deeper realm of the enemy, one’s self; materially or spiritually - either to destroy, for pleasure, or to create.


And the poet of sword’s ink and phase of dance wandered on.

Part 2

Wholeness,
Heil


On his way through thick forest he heard a bird sing, the melody of a lost winter - and thus was revealed the Heilige adem; carving from oak a flute to become sacred, whole in breath, as breath is spirit breathed from wherever you are, the surroundings will animate your stofwisseling and by becoming conscious in breath you will animate the spirits.

He breathed and exhaled for each tune has its force to be played upon, to know the distance and strength, to listen to purity and master the melody which goes from body into spirit and spirit into body; beware for ill breath; and so he mastered the bird’s secret.

Playing his flute, he talked to the birds, he asked an owl about the road and was told; ‘’where spirit is ijl, that is the way, where your breath becomes heavy and body light in your mind, where your legs become heavy to move – where spirit is light but reveals its holy heaviness, to become wholly, your instinct will testify, for breathing through nose is to filter, to filter is to smell, to smell is to taste, to taste is to feel your body, to feel is to listen to Will beyond yours; breath the pines, the eternal of life and taste its death of cycles’’.

In the forest’s part dominated by pines and lesser light, he breathed but the cold air made his lungs to be moist in feeling, each seasonal and chemical degree of air has its pureness, our body regulates it by its own cycles that have been animated by the cycles of nature. The wolf’s skin was too thick and breathed already another past, another spirit; but he had a scarf in possession unworn by woman’s hair and untouched by perfume, he used it for his face but knowing the scarf’s intent he became distracted by yearning for woman’s touch and so his breath became out of melody.

He meditated on his flute and asked for counsel and was spoken to by a wind sent by gods’ guidance, it whirled a pathway of light by opening the pines density and the snow covering a road of green needles; and he was reminded of witnessing his intent of leaving, to arrive; and so he focused and felt eternity living his soul.

Out of the forest, orientating for his road, a robber mistook him for a poor and weak commoner lost in his travel and engaged him in combat; before the robber knew his breath already was stuck, stricken out of his chest and kneeled in suffocation, his dagger was no match for the wanderer’s motions. He waited till the robber could express his fear and defeat in heavy breathing unsatisfying his blood pumping through unmelodious beats of the heart. He unsheathed his sword and with controlled breath, which is the spirit, he held his sword above the robber’s neck who was pleading for mercy.

‘’Mercy, for I was not about to take your life, only to scare you, threaten and at most wound you at a spot easy to be healed for I am well experienced!’’

The breather of pines spoke: ‘’And how did you gain these motions; how many before me had to suffer their weakness, or your weakness of direct combat, making it a strength to be alike a bush, ambushing those even stronger than you, I have no disdain for that, only that I am not in any care for you to be alive.’’

‘’Mercy, for I have lots of valuables, I share them to your like of choice!’’

‘’First you wish to play upon my spirit you mistook to be alike that of yours’, to have you alive and well because you intended no actual harm upon me but eager to nose through my possessions, that did not work and now you try to persuade me, a wanderer who cannot be burdened with your, by others’ earned, treasures.’’

‘’Mercy, for I have many who know me who are willing to avenge me, it will spare you your life or at least troubles on your road to wherever you go!’’

‘’This is exactly what mercy is, by the common use of your fool tongues, fear in the hypocrite who spares lives and prevents pain upon others to not have actions taken against him in similar manners, but I am not a commoner, my mercy is that you won’t feel your head in parts through weak aims, but wholly served by a strong breath throughout my body, my muscles are already in shape, which is strength possessing space and holding breath in my veins; I fear no re-actions in the way how I am judged by them, by fools, who cannot even judge their own limits and false arrogance, this is my truthful arrogance for knowing better and acting upon it, and even if I may ever fall by your kind of common fools, I would take mercy upon myself, mercy is to not spare another, not yourself, but if you give it, do it wholly with no ill will to inflict unnecessary pains and mutilations, such should be justified for higher Mercy of greater intent.’’

‘’Mercy..!’’

The head severed; he had no dignity, no understanding and so his face expressed ill spirit while rolling on the earth, no control over submitting to what was to come.

He left the body for the animals in winter hunger to be eaten from and put his head on a thick branch he had sharpened to face those alike in commonness, and wandered on - his next vision was a ‘city of free slaves’ in the near distance.

Part 3

Spirit and ancestors long gone
– all are embodied

To feel as it appears,
To feel as one is


Walking on towards the near distance, so it seemed, towards the ‘city of free slaves’, it took him a while for the walls were so great it dominated all the focus away from the surrounding environment, the distance was in sight, but not that near; meanwhile he passed a yard of graves, of ancient times when only those with honour would be resurrected in names carved in memorial, verse in memory, or simply the earth raised with a tomb of stones testifying one’s worth.

He sat down once the sun was on its way to the world beyond gods, to make way for the moon, the cycle – beginning and end, what is in between is the story of the chirping bird about to be lost in the claws of an eagle, the ant fighting its way through the great halls of another colony, the man leaving his home and pregnant wife to fight for his dear soil to grow fruitful as a family he firstly has to protect from the threat of those who wish to spoil his soil into theirs’, including the woman and the destiny of the unborn fruit unknown, as in those times the fruit not of one’s own could easily be sold or sacrificed to the foreigner’s own will for pleasure and gain.

The abandoned yard of graves was more alike a part of nature yet to be cultivated, ruins eaten by time testifying a man’s worth by enduring, for that is what ruins are, testifying the past of greatness – woe those whose past will crumble without ruining their future for those yet to come to take testimony from the past of ancestors, and build upon their endurances and strive.

In the snow he sat and read unknown names with known deeds; darkness fell and the moon was covered by a cloud so thick and grey, shadowing the earth that even the snow’s whiteness became as if it were a shadow itself following wherever the cold leads.

‘’Fallen ones, who fought and died as well as they were among family and lived well; my night of health I say unto myself and those I wish well: ‘Schlaf gesund Sterb gesund!’’
So he became a sleeping wolf covering his bare bearded face and his eyes sunken into the depths of his soul, his flesh.

Thus was revealed to him in dreaming abyss reflecting the day’s impressions: ‘’Spirit and long gone ancestor, all are imagined in flesh, even in the mistiest fog we see faces of haunting ghosts’’, for a cripple in body is as much crippled in spirit; his attention, emotions and overcoming plagued revolving the body; the body manifesting in spirit for when one is in good health so one perceives the world to overcome in as much strength and Will – for the body testifies the strength of Will; alike when you start to smile and the mind feels its body and starts to laugh together with the flesh, through voice and rejoiced stomach where the soul seats.

The skies finally about to shine their cyclic eye:

A god awakening the dawn by spurring blazing fire behind his chariot, the horses eager not to burn as fuel fuelled their will riding around the world and those unknown to us; so too he who is the past to continue awakened from his revelation.

His eyes beholding a new dawn looked upon a tomb, the former evening still covered in shadow, with painted, yet to faint, bodies and symbols; one of a beautiful woman, who he assumed lays buried next to the man fallen and resurrected in memory, told a story of her taking her own life not wishing to leave her beloved behind to be buried under the earth, without her next to him accompanying the road to what was to come after we’ve endured this one.

And thus was revealed, speaking these words to himself: ‘’I feel the way it looks; for beauty makes one feel his strive to obtain, to become, yourself or your legacy of children yet to come by picking the right tree on fertile earth bearing fruits of good taste - or to cover for those having tasted their own mistakes unwilling to overcome’’.

‘’I listen, and it makes me feel; on the loneliest mountain I may play my flute and sing my song in most rejoiced tune, so it is as if I am among good people celebrating wedding of proved man and fertile woman.’’

His words before he would go on hunt and feed his stomach hungering, to eat and the manner as much reflect the stofwisseling and organs in need and hierarchy of soul, organized in stomach, so he spoke his dream: ‘’I feel as I perceive and as I act; I perceive and act as I am embodied.’’

Part 4

Knowing distance
Humbling yourself


In the midst of a field astray from the road as does the stomach lead the mind’s thoughts towards the taste of prey yet to be hunted, away from the pursuit of his greater hunt resulting his end; though surrounded by pines and bald oaks varying on the sides of the field, the dry winds, as if different rivers made their way over the earth, swooped over the field taking the upper layer of newly fallen snow as dust blinding his sight, screaming into his ears the pathway of whirling, the cold numbing the touch of his blood.

The healthy death-sleeper, breather of pines, flute-talker to birds, wandering poet, dancer of sword and other names to come, was tracking an elk, midst the field the animal passed between hills breaking the winds and so he had great opportunity to strike his prey with clear senses and breath untouched by the god blowing his air out of his lungs taking away his own spirit, hidden under his wolf’s head.

It was then that he felt the presence of more than himself and the hunted elk, for there were those who hunted both; wolfs surrounded and as was the elk about to run, this was the moment to strike imbalanced fear in a corner of already lost opportunity; the man-wolf breathed calmly as was to see from the cold being rhythmically confronted with his heat from living – exhaling what was inbreathed.

The elk was down already, though wolves are lesser in weight and strength, they attack those stronger than themselves and submit to a clear hierarchy. The remaining wolves not focused upon the elk started to approach him with carefulness, as they thought him to be an outcast who survived solitude and will take many down before the more will kill off the few, for the skin of wolf protecting him was of remarkable size and smelled of strength even after its death and protective endurances for blood not its own to warm and skin to embody.

The man-wolf calmly moved around his axis, confronting each approaching wolf with calamity by his willingness to fight, so they themselves kept calm too and this is ‘to know each other’s distance’, feeling the measurement of strength and outcome.
Then he started to approach the one who clearly led the others, and his she-wolf pretending to be scared, stroked her head in front of her mate’s, exposing her own throat to protect his’. At this moment he realized, it was time to humble himself; for when one has pride but does not know his place, he’s alike a man who never bows his head and thus the sword strikes its aim, while he who isn’t stubborn and ruled by shame from plebs, will fall on his knees to not be stricken, and thus the opportunity to jump-up with a dagger arises to slice the opponent’s throat, or to extent your life, delaying the death of the ‘wrongly merciful’.

Humble but not as prey, they smelled and encircled him for a cold time, until they left him be to enjoy the death of hunt giving life, they shared, as a mistaken outcast even prior other pack-members, to take his share and fill his stomach on a later time away from the field.

The wolf and she-wolf; loyal to each other and in strength and stealthy intelligence leading, they were attracted to each other, or rather the wolf took her and she liked him afterwards as his possession, for a woman to be possessed by a man is a jealousy in just behaviour, which means care and loyalty; as like attracts like, so like gives birth to like; imbalance often enough destroys the former better traits of one and by few outcomes, gives a strengthening result.

Away from field and hunt, he ate his roasted share of meat and sung accompanied by fire:
‘’Alike the howls of wolves
That cannot be without self’s remaining
Overcoming beyond love’s of self
To love the becoming of the coming hunt
Is the Strive of love of self yet to come
Dawn to rise alike howling’s mystery
Echoing beyond where wolves hunt’’


And so he sang and so the cycle of the day was to repeat its shadowing night to resurrect the light in the dawn to come, awakening the sleep to be gone.

Part 5

Making your way
Moonwalkers


As life started to let itself be heard in the order of sounds familiar to each cycle of the day, so awakened the man without a heart; on he went but with his melancholic blood yearning, and the soul corrupting by an overflow of feelings exposing his spirit - as even the gods are known for, for has not each god a cycle of season and nature, so each season and cycle in life has its dominating wereldaanschouwing – he wandered around without intent of purpose relating to the stars’ revelation he had read at his home near the densely spirited lake.

So far astray, from the road that even the gods had eased for his pathway to end and greatest agon with green needles leading his melody, he now did not care for, he followed a river, by its sound as mostly the surface was frozen; up and up, through forest and over rocks, he came to a halt at a glacier and disheartened gave a sigh alike a quiet spring breeze over a field of buttercups, partly picked by a young lad but not taken with him to have a flowery crown for his girl, as he felt no future in anything; so he sighed alike this lost wind of spring.

It was there that he saw the last flower of winter-breath, red as a rose, shaped as one too - beside that the head was frozen in crystal clearness, it was white frozen and its stem had thorns of ice.
He broke the stem from the snow and it broke into pieces except the rose’s head, the crystal head started to melt in his warm hands, blood flowed through his fingers making the snow as if history was now in shedding of life – a cold heart was what was left in his palm, from the size it was of a human child; that he ate to remember his youth and forget his petty sorrows as the heart testified that his’ still beats and glories in life, his youth had endured, but it did not make it wholehearted.

He glimpsed from whence he came and realized that he had to start over by stepping over each heartfelt past traces of his feet, to return on his pathway towards wholeheartedness, much to pass by and go through before that to reach.

Going back, he saw the moon in the midday’s sky and thought: ‘’To possess all the gold of this earth, lonely is the moon, distant from the sun, praised by many in poems from our earth; but lonely – to possess al the gold on this earth, nay, to desire and live by this desire, that is to walk on the moon infertile without men, women, children…, life…; suffocating your breath in pursuit of greed – then the sun stops to shine, or rather, you face the moon and see it is all an illusion and it has given you nothing but wasted time, which is wasted life, for to be conscious about time, in mind and body or in body without mind, is to live, all that lives testifies, enduring time and a part of cyclic rebirth, that is the value of death - to give birth.

And so, even astray he is on his right way, for no road is to be walked on by rules or by any person; each his own way, if not – make one, if you share the road, each heart may follow its own destiny, its own intent and its own purpose to another hearth with different wood to be warmed from – don’t be fooled by sharing, for digesting is not equal as each tree burns differently.


Back on track again.

Part 6

Corrupters of youth
Those who do not want to hear have to feel


The road towards the ‘city of free slaves’ became more and more untouched from how nature gives her touch in accordance to seasonal cycles upon and as the environment; the snow started to melt the closer he came, smoke and human herding waste became more dominant in the air to breathe.

The eater of childhood passed one of the more and more frequently becoming, standing houses along the road, increasingly busier with human traffic too, a manmade road of cultivated stones – at one house he stopped once he noticed a young boy who seemed lost yet not.

‘’Boy, why are you not playing or learning skills of the body at your age, why do you laugh at the games of those your age who take it serious, and count your steps in school as if life depends?’’

The boy looked up at him and said: ‘’I have ambitions, the body is for those people who will become nothing in life, so say my parents and so say my teachers’’.

‘’Boy, what is status between the walls of the civilized is a circus in life without borders; the true acrobat has no rules, the clown does it all from a paper; who are your parents to have you so serious and weak in body, don’t they know the mind feeds from the body and the body grows from the mind, to neglect one is as it is, one; not the other, you neglect both.’’

The boy did not know what to answer but was taught to not withdraw and overthink what was said, or question more, so he called for his parents, who came to see what went on, and after being explained they said agreeing: ‘’Look at you, playing games by just wandering around, not taking life serious, a beard that will never give another trust in you; you are like a child in a man’s body, take example of our little son, more grown up than you!’’

‘’Example of your boy…, why does he bleed from his chest? What are with his eyes so dull and ambitious for a petting on the back; I see now, he has no heart but a number, where is it, I ask, but I know already – you are the slaughterers of childhood, cutting out youthfulness from those eager to explore and see for themselves; once the heart of childhood has been spoiled or ambitiously cultivated, so youth rots in its chest infecting from there all within and those to seek guidance will be misguided, a cycle of cultivation alike roads leading to one corrupt city of governance.’’

The parents, angry at what they heard, such arrogance as if the wanderer would know any better, replied: ‘’Man with no future, no status, no credence to say anything against our ways, for only those who drink from our nipples and give milk on their turn alike that of ours’, have any say upon our ways; his heart was no good, we tossed it away to have him serve justice, which is to be justice, that is, to say, allow no other way leading astray from our city’s freedom, justice is in numbers.

You know, from the very beginning were our laws, that is what make us so great today, as it should have always been this way, ought to be and will be.’’

Sick of their spirit outside the walls but as if they were behind them; he prophesised from the past:

‘’In the beginning was the Sword.
The destroyer held it up high and cleft through pages,
There they were, hovering through the air, voiceless words,
A book; written legislations and summed memories gathered throughout the ages,
But after the beginning, because in the beginning was the Sword...

The Sword created a new era of spoken poetry,
Poetry recited and danced upon, circling the life-tree,
The dances reflected the essence of the volks-spirit and Nature,
The women gave birth to sword-wielding men of oath to none but blood,
Blood for blood so goes the law, oath to bloody legacy so goes the law.

In the beginning was the Sword,
And the Sword, so shall be the ending -
of each cycle uttering its last words...’’


And he left the corrupters of youth nearing the great walls of free slaves.
The snow was gone in totality as the heat became more intense the closer to the city, and so did the skies became viler.

On a crossroad of the many from all-over, but the same they were no matter which corner, for the left defines the right and the centre is any creature that thinks, and if not, feels, it is the centre of life and the world in itself, all to be valued and tasted by its own hierarchy of organs, and so the dung beetle celebrates the taste of faeces and the one repulsed by it, reflects what its organs say it is, you smell so my face will tell you exactly that.

A fool stood upon carton boxes, towering above all, he proclaimed: ‘’Great men and women of high stature, for we all are, that is, ‘to keep everyone in their value’, disagree or not, we all share the same valued principle, that is, we are humans and can be whatever we want..., just imagine.’’

‘’If we are all of such great stature, little man towering above us upon carton boxes, then why raise your voice in such a manner to make belief…’’

The carton-tower fool interrupted: ‘’Carton boxes…?! These are bricks of truth, solid, worth a thousand castles of fake knights, who are you to say I am little, look at me, I tower above you, people are looking at me, they listen to what I have to say; who here is little, you jealous man – I have my own value, you should know that, we share this as humans, so let’s have everyone in their value!’’

‘’If so, I dare you, why not have the dogs piss on the first brick and see what happens, for according to the elements, each follows another upon effect; the thunder is with lightning but it is after that you hear, and the blind man can testify; you need these bricks to feel tall, but that is the need alike a small dog barking to appear dangerous.’’

‘’Lightning and thunder?!’’ - the fool replied - ‘’I show you, here, I have a dagger and cut off my ears; see how my head turns into wine, for all to drink from; you ignoble man – bring me the lightning and I will not hear the thunder, who here is the stupid one now!’’

He left the man standing for others to witness his collapse, a stray dog took a leak later that day, and there he was; deaf, without ears and soaked in dog’s piss testifying his fool’s bricks.

Part 7

To steal by giving
Cyclic intent
The city’s mad-goat


At the gates, it was like a city made of desert sand, giant walls which seemed to be impossible to climb upon, to penetrate and to conquer; but the walls themselves testify conquered freedom, paradise behind fences exposes your desires and loyalty, your lack of fulfilment, in knowledge to counter, or in Will beyond what has been given without choice, for to be given can be a theft in itself.

It was unknown to him to even guess how many days it would take to circle around the city’s walls with a marching pace; if the lungs can bear at all the ill air to tolerate without a sickness to strengthen its tolerance, that is to weaken its strength of origin, cyclic intent.

The city had no seasons but was as if an era of volcanic eruptions, though in the environment it takes life by its own, overtaking each cycle of order to create a new order of will-less will, it happens and through such the new organic hierarchies will perceive it as a new will, organs re-organized to lead, either by strengthening of will or as the will itself to stomach without mind.


Entering the gates, he saw guards who did not know to guard but their image of representing only in rank, not in intent of origin to act. No soldiers, only guards of the eternal season.
The breather of pines was a strange image and attracted lots of winking eye-gazing moments, walking through the market-streets ending up at one of the many open centres; the moment manifesting in their imagination by just passing by, affecting the minds’ cyclic season of comprehension; but soon their focus was upon something else - they called the creature ‘the city’s mad-goat’.

The goat at ease was telling a story about a Helen and the surrounding events, a name of an other-world’s beauty from a long gone time; he asked a question in which you can find the answer: ‘’What is history without the face of Helen?’’

Everyone knew about the legend from the other-world, other because the people did not represent the slightest beauty of those in the chain bygone, cut off from union, for to unite it means you were separated at first; the ruins of long gone peoples entice to puzzle your potential of understanding and creation; if you can’t you are not in union with the past’s part, for the past is never a whole, but different holes’ alike stars lensed upon with different lenses of strengths and colours, for what is an abyss but the heavens shining its past upon us to see the moment and grab the future.

The city’s mad-goat, though the given name testified the madness of the people which one can say is normal, yelled: ‘’That would be a history with peace and a future in which we live without intolerance for our personal tastes’’


The city’s mad goat, the direct descendent of a lineage converted into sheep, spoke: ‘’What are your tastes’ but bad instincts and denial; your jealousy and envy testify what is worth, that is what makes you feel what you are, for to behold is to feel the way it is, or rather in your cases, what you are not and cannot attain, worthless is that what you feel and are.’’

The people laughed and the Witness of Fate, the healthy death-sleeper, the wandering-moment of eternal cycles - was curious why they were not in anger, not about to silence his tongue. And they mockingly said: ‘’Look at you, old goat, time has no meaning here, we are time for we are the numbers and we are the perceivers, we are the value-givers to time; however we look is what was; the imagined and the past are the same, Helen’s face is fading, look around you, who here looks like the past; we are the future, the eternal season.’’

The city’s mad-goat tried to voice his spirit but the laughing did not stop for too long to even bother to wait any longer, and thus he started to blare its bleating; ‘’beheheh, behehe, behehe’’; and those true to numbers stopped laughing and became serious; saying ‘’hear who has come to reason, he starts to sound like us already, everything at last won’t last its madness when confronted with so many of common taste and senses.


‘’Ye, ye, I have heard that already, my neighbour spoke about that two days ago, come with something new’’; while another was intrigued and started to clap.

The flute-speaker with birds asked the city’s mad-goat how come they laughed and mocked and were about to get drunk on joy when speaking such words of sense uncommon to the common senses of plebs and politicians.

‘’Once you start to speak in their words, they know already; that is, to not understand, they speak a language we have in common but translates differently – it is their daily talk in serious manner, sound like them to be tolerated among them.; be an animal, in our context, be human.’’

The man-wolf started to howl and the people who were already departing turned again in the direction which made them laugh earlier; and started to shout - ‘’you hateful dog, how dare you; guards, guards, he threatens our feelings!’’
The city’s seemingly common-goat said: ‘’A animal to their like, that is, to their image – unite in deception.’’

And he started to purr like a kitten, bark like a dog of ankle height and oink like a piggy.
One man apologised for having made too soon a conclusion and the man-wolf was thus invited to a dinner, and another asked him if he went to the same college as him; a woman asked him if his poetry was for meant for her and at last, a man of high rank in human value, offered him a position of leadership, that is, to be a face of their righteousness.

Part 8

Image of gods
Strength and forgetfulness


He went to the dinner on invitation given at the market, in the evening he sat down at the table with other guests as well; the talking was minor in importance, but such can be important to lay the fundament for doors to others, or the realm of hidden depths to crack open.

The kitchen was open to the living room, empty as the other rooms were to be used for the intent of other activities, though a bookshelf in a corner, the table was long, the host sat at one end, the stranger another, the host’s wife busy in kitchen and serving, in between that time taken to sit close to her husband.

The host, after having poured each guest his share of wine started to talk about how ''all are subjugated to the Divine, there is no strength other than that of the Divine, ours is merely allowed by the grace of the One power.

Strength is, to bow your head and sacrifice your will to that of another more Supreme, the Divine and below, those representing the One’s will by guiding us to the greater will; strength is, to acknowledge you have none and all is by One’s grace, to know you cannot act against One.’’ So spoke the host.

‘’What do you think, stranger from faraway?’’


‘’Strength is the many in one to unite; and the minor to be appointed its best will, that is, its design and intent going well. A fist is a unity of fingers and force, but with one finger to point alike a sword you can expose the enemies and traitors from distance and direct the warrior lines behind you towards the right, specific direction, then the single finger becomes the greater fist of ordered lines marching towards opposed unity.

Know when unity is the power serving Greater interests than the immediate or that of others; then you are alike to the finger with its own intent beside the unity of forceful fist, a part of the whole instead of the whole determining the parts.’’


‘’But for One there is no-one alike, One’s part is whole, the whole is all that exists in parts; no-one to measure against One, there is not a two alike the One.’’


‘’Strength is not whole but divided, to have force is to possess spirit in being to become; the mind has no will, so the body will not possess, on its turn, to possess spirit is to break through habit; the mind wills not but you breathe it nonetheless, the body strengthens and once mind wills not to pain the body, the body wills upon the mind and so you fight on – find your harmony.’’


''And how do you measure, don’t we all have weakness in old age, the strength each to his degree, has same essence from One, we all share both strength and weakness.’’


''Strength is the measurement with the gods, the gods are to be challenged and to be taken as guides, a challenge is for the betterment of your judgement; the strength of gods mean nothing to them with no-one to measure against, the strength of man is nothing with no god to live up to. The gods are in our image, that is, the different forces in us mirrored as the highest forces, the elements and nature too are the gods image manifested in our image as to possess the consciousness of elements, and to be all that is, so the tree may be death or may be fertility, it certainly is time - for we perceive the strengths and qualities and measure our humble place on this world from which we got birthed - and fight to overcome or harmonize with the gods.''

All that is, so death is and so the gods too will die and cycle re-birth, the value of life is death.


‘’And can all that live be life or find it through death?’’


‘’The lowly are in the image of no-life, for those low-hearted and cowardly, they will have no image but ugly reminder and scourge to not be like them, their image is all the ugly, but they are no-life, for they leave no legacy of life; no hero alike who lives in his death through his deeds to be inspired from, no Hall of Life after earth to go to but to the Hall of the Common, where they disappear in the common face and thus will disappear from our memory alike, that is, the Memory to Strive alike – the Hall of Fallen Great Ones is the return and life eternal - to remember, not just to remember, but how to be remembered, if your enemies don’t erase you or scourge you in lies; regardless, the deeds exist and to be erased because of Greatness, too is to be remembered, the wish to forget in the enemy; they forget, but the Greater spirits will turn against forgetfulness, to return Strive, so goes the cycle and so each has its dominant era.’’

‘’I understand we both have great divide in how we understand the worlds, let us be one at least in good taste for wine and talk about what others too can follow.’’


So the evening became night and the one among many was given a place to sleep to find his way in dreams not shared by any of his time, that is, the time measured through Great spirits of other times.

Part 9

Sold love and tolerance
Hate and taste


Outside having said goodbye to the friendly contrast who hosted him, he walked through the city to explore, he came at a market and stood still at ‘a shop of love’. The salesman was unshaven in an unclean manner with black stubbly hairs, greasy skin with a sweaty appearance and a moustache fuller than any other parts of his face and head.

“Look at these beautiful women, this one specifically, her hairs as the goddess of fertility, the stomach in perfect proportion to her feet, and her smile… oh, how well carved in her face!’’

The soon to become the Most Hated of the city looked in disgust and perplexed; the woman’s waist was so fat that her feet were not to be seen by her own eyes, her hairs were cut short and kinky with crawling dirt in it; and her face…, that smile of arrogance on that unfitting bleach face, that she believes any of what that salesman of love said was true – a tiny smile carved deep in her pig snout of a face, her cheeks were eaten away by the contrast. So hideous he expressed what she was and what the man lied about.

The Lover of Few spoke to the merchant, or rather, just to have someone speaking against such corruption: ‘’What is this for nonsense, non-beauty?! How could any Man of Health be attracted to such a corruption of life and believe in your words of whoredom; and I do not mind your feelings, both of you, the seller and the to be sold, for in all my honesty, to tolerate this is to hurt the Strive for Beauty, too much caretaking of watching one’s feelings is at cost of health!
To be tolerant is to accept certain ways relating to the past or to open up new roads that might be intolerant to former ones walked upon; but too much tolerance is dust consuming lungs, for dirt is more to be found, dirt to our organs of cyclic ordering, than air untouched by stench in this city. Tolerance is one thing, to melt different metals in a fine sword of a new era, but your kind of tolerance is the corruption of all pure elements as an impotent mongrel.’’

The tyrant of equal love shouted: ‘’You hatemonger, how dare you, we are here to be loved and to give love, to all, regardless but not to your ugly way of speaking and behaving; look how teary eyed she is and see how much in anger I am!
We are all equal, I command you to love and be loved, so our love demands!’’

‘’What is this, an authority speaking for the shattered among the many; equal authority and dividualism – the equal to command the equal; the arrogance of hypocrisy. I speak with no hate but with love, the love for healthy fruits, the love for beauty, the love for Wholeness; that is the intolerance for ‘’by chances’’, don’t let a ‘by chance’ corrupt the choice of senses attracted to proportion of organs of another.’’

Another slave girl of much better appearance was brought in line: ‘’This woman, I will give her away to the most loved, that is, the most hated by nature; certainly not you, you with your hateful taste; she fits the man over there, with the eyes wide apart, the upper lip split in two and his head in proportion to his chin, alike a bulb of candlelight containment is his head.’’

‘’What is this, forcing the good to mate with the bad, and your metrical perception too is a broken compass, for symmetry is the opposition of equal parts to each other; and proportion is the connection of unequal parts with each other, proportion is a relationship of changing, developing things, creates the unity of sequence, while symmetry, which is static, creates opposition and balance (*) - and my taste is well proportioned hatred indeed and symmetrical in response to anyone daring to silence or challenge me; that is, take an eye from me and I take away your family, or if you are noble I cut you down only, symmetrical in relationship to nobility or wickedness.

Can't you see that I express my love through my hatred; I hate that, than I love such, the opposite of, or a balance in between - of that which I hate.

Hate, this feeling beyond goodness, yes – this feeling which we are supposed to discriminate against and to accept Love as the One and Only great-est virtue in this city of eternal season, of all times; since the flock of sheep interprets immediacy as everlasting and dominant throughout all centuries and villages, as it was, is, and should have always been this way – and shall be. Never!
Understand do you not, the love for the selected few, to sacrifice – through hatred. Through hatred, I tell you, is the best way to learn to love, to know the value of sacrifice; for have I not the will to spill my blood to have live the memory of a long forgotten age, she who awakens the call to war in the Rooster regardless of Sun to behold -- for my instinct beholds in all void and dark, perceiving through blind light as well – that for which I would sacrifice and not share, those for who I would spill in plenitude and not receive but coldness nearing death.
If not, then what value has my willingness to sacrifice; then what is left of Will at all but the will to be satisfied; woe! that I ever will be De Ontevredene, the one who is Dissatisfied with all immediacy of institutionalized-understanding and instincts polluted with artificial-nature. That I ever be Dissatisfied with your civilization and progress and myths towards Utopias - of all kinds with all of mankind, away from the myths of the long forgotten ages, like a Cacus misleading, inverting the meaning of left-behind traces.

Your equal love is indifference to whatever your ‘’equally loved’’ partner expresses herself; to be equally loved is to be equally disposable; but your love too has an intent that is not unconditional, the intent of parts from all over the city of different pasts to melt into a monstrosity. Equally ugly and equally disproportioned - or else equally symmetric to have it equal in impotent expression - and equal slaves; that is your corrupt love, hatred for beauty!’’

‘’That is enough’’, said the sweaty, greasy skinned Man of the Brothel; ‘’People you have heard, he is hates you all, by his perception, you dancer with grace, you are a limp-walker; and you, ocean’s beauty, by his preying hatred you are a goldfish in a bowl; you, transcending Oneness, are a bastard of anti-blood; all people, you have been insulted equally by his hateful taste and you should cast him into the fires to have him purified, for fire has no special taste but fuel that can burn - thus we can cleanse him into salving tastelessness!’’



* Ruskin’s Theory of Beauty

Part 10

Plebeian right
The punishment shall be retaliated
‘’We, the good citizens’’


The plebeian undividable mob of individuals encircled the Lone Wolf, he understood that plebeian law cannot be reasoned with and he could not make his way through the path of the sword nor by words; they seized him and took him to the tribunal; a pole, a rope and the Free Man.

Around him were the executers, the witnesses and the public to entertainingly feed themselves on the misery of others, though the misery of another is theirs’, they identify the High as if belonging to the lowly pitiful, and so their measurement fits all feet. All of them, though, were mere plebs with different names given the right to judge what they understand by rights only, against all instincts.

‘’You, non-citizen; we have concluded to cleanse you from your own misery, for who can live with so much disgust for those not alike your will – But! if you repent, we spare you your punishment; what is your answer?!’’

‘’What makes you think I value my life so much to plead the ugly in your manner of ugliness, I have spoken and stood by truthful taste, and thus too I accept the actions taken in accordance to the might of those given the pathetic right to judge over others.’’

‘’Well then, fire alone can save you from your taste we give you; for in ashes we are all equal and it tastes as good to the earth whether from wood, me or you; in the wind we are as light and will be as grey to the eye of the beholder, let us all be ashes, after life we’ll all be equal.’’

‘’After life we are as equal as during; your actions testify, you no-life, erase me but the stronger I shall rise from the dead to live inspirited in your desire to forget!’’

The city of eternal season was so for a reason other than their markets and walls - underground tunnels continuously fed with coals, the dead, chopped down forests, the living; all to keep the season pleasant to the feet of those that cannot measure the cycles of spirits, and of course the comfort of their world against all the worldly.
No stake burning but a tossing in the underground to end as warmth for spoiled feet no matter how ravished; and smoke covering the skies to melt snow and keep sun at distance to their likeness, the winds have no say.

Loosened from the pole they were about to lead the unleashed to their punishment which never be his whether executed or not. Walking with his head up, for to show pity to your destiny is to slander your sovereign love for Fate, that is, to overcome your will yet not given up – the strongest of will; the ones pleading and humiliating their dignity find value in life for the sake of breathing, whether it is the scent from rotten meat or the eternity of pines embracing their touch in a sovereign forest, life tastes the same to them, to live tasteless with death as enemy is alike to have never been born and thus death too does not exist, they find no resurrected life in the memory of the living.


The bells started to ring all throughout the City of Free Slaves, it marked the war against the season, the city was being seized.
As the commander in debt to civil values tried to reason their reasons upon the seizers, he was scalped in front of the shut gate with the guards outside in formations alike a tumour of malformed weakness.

The warriors with female servants, wives and mothers to their children they left behind in their chain of villages, the women of the raided village known for its youth now for women’s echoed lamenting and of what used to be their homes, had surrounded each gate the walls against time have.

As the sound of unbelief and despair started to dominate the city’s streets the news spread about how one man nearly slaughtered the childlike guards at one gate all by himself, the man with the beard as a second face and his posture and size as if giants collapsed from eternal glaciers upon the earth; each head he collected, each scalp he would decorate his soldiers’ tents with.

All in this moment of focused thoughts of the citizens and executors, he himself seized the tasteless executors and took possession over his belongings again; while doing so, he struck one man’s chin broken in his throat; a chin that testified he never grinded his teeth out of body’s need to release excessive strength, or thoughts possessing his body and foods rather he drunk than chewed, the eternal nipple suckling, fore chewed pureness of untouched skeleton.

The Crusher of weak chins had to run and hide among the chaos of trapped excesses, the far too many; while doing so he heard a ‘narrator of the we’ call out above the crowds of people already settled with comfort to comfort their entrapment and disbelief as the city’s wall against time, against health, too stood against enemies from foreign lands and seasons; ‘'we good citizens are bowed to do the most hated of the city harm if they are able, for we are the city and we have no other self than what the city is!’’

Wandering in shadows till the night fell and the sun got killed to give life to the moon, he found a place avoided by all; a small place of green season untouched and uncared for by human civility. A catacomb sunken under a temple where greatness once flourished and gods were honoured along the past; in ruins. He stepped over the rubble and found an entrance of crumbling stairways hidden as if a partially exposed underground sewer.

He lit an old torch into flames and followed the one way only, deep down to where the past can only be confronted from one sight, or else turn back among the ruins of different pasts and parts of civilised humans too long sheltered from the cycle of the Golden Age - leading the season at first into darkness, for without the darkness no cycle towards light.

He arrived at a underground pasture of carved-out rocks as if cave walls and small plateaus with little green, to find himself in front of the Hall of Ancient Statues, covered in darkness till he passed on his flame upon the few wall torches separated in distances; the Hall now got a dimmed atmosphere with the torches flaming the walls mildly with their distantly fiery lights, and the great statues of forgotten times became alike grimly giants, for the flames wakened the faces and then hid them due to the dancing fires, in the shadows again..

Part 11

Preserving of blood
Giving the punishment meaning
Eye-gazing moment

Dionysus is the erection in my heart, next to Fortunae being the rotating wheel in my Will and Wotan the wandering poet in my spirit. When I am drunk the erected heart takes over and rotates my will in wandering spirit, the poet in me is a madman, a no-mad.


While standing in front of a mighty warrior erected as a giant, long gone yet his legacy haunting those who forget, the Statue spoke to the Listener of Hewed Rock; ‘’Heil upon you, onheil upon those broken in parts from corrupt pasts.’’

‘’Heiligheid upon your wholeness in spirit and memory, Ancient One.’’

‘’The sight upon you incites my ogenblikkelijke life captured in the monument, that is, eternal moment in wholesome ruin united merely with those alike and beyond; we speak to one another through eternity of belonging.

I have to tell you, you know your tale, answer yourself, ask me.’’

‘’Tell me, Inciter of Feelings through Appearance which is Essence; where do I find meaning in their punishment?’’

‘’A woman most beautiful from a village, formerly known for its youth now for bygone echoes of lamenting women; you will harvest their punishment upon the City of Forgotten Past through the fruit of her inspirited by a man who collects the heads of the terrified, to terrify those who belong to such ruins, as we speak to each other so do the heads speak to those not alike us.

Their re-actions stream in their blood, as corrupt blood follows from corrupt taste and great actions follow from wholly blood alike the best wine making you understand the rhythm of good time; past crimes follow blood lines, actions are retaliation and good measurement, too they are in balance if a Healthy Stronger defeats a Corrupt Weaker, so the actions flow in the Healthy Stronger’s blood as living and the other’s as by being spilled on soil; as the city will not be besieged in this time, so they will fall by the fruit of his time; walls to preserve blood corrupt the stofwisseling and thus they will not dare to river their blood in order to have their Tree of Life continue in its steady soil and skies, a sea shall cleanse and fertilise the soil and rivers be birthed again, so the Corrupt Weaker may not know of any retaliation.

The birthed fruit in ripening shall crack open their shell by your will, for no ready told destiny is unfolded if the will does not act.’’

‘’Tell me, Warrior Risen in Forgetfulness, where does my journey lead after I have given vision to the father of the fruit, what is my measurement, where to find my path when I have endured this Underground of Halls?’’

‘’Once you find the Wegwijzer and become wise in vision, that is when you gain an eye Beyond Storm and Ice, to see beyond your time that you can alter Fate in as much as a compass will shake its arrow in sensitivity to belonging, only the lowly are destined without destiny, your eye shall be Ægishjálmur, terror between your brows, one shall turn inward that cannot be said is a loss, alike a grape ripening into wine – this soma of the gods called Hisamdalajjad.

Now tell me, Fateful One, where do the birds speak in the skies beyond sun’s whirl.’’

‘’I will be on my way Beyond Storm and Ice after I have given vision to the harvest.’’


And so he left behind the hall of ancient statues yet to find the way outside.

Part 12

Flowers and grain in catacomb


Having passed through darkness he finally came where breath became less in depth of the earth and sight as if the shades and shadows were more light; that was when he found a long gone dead woman in unrest. Her blue dark appearance as tight fleshy skin on her bones, nails and moonshining hair longer due to shrinking of life, a robe of nice red velvet with golden threaded symbols of whirling suns and a crown of withered flowers around her head.

‘’Who gives unrest to death and breathes through another world?
Be careful to not blow my flowers into pieces’’

‘’Your unrest is you in your grave and your flowers already are in parts, picked from life to give love and so love withered, don’t you know the Jera lasts longer, it does not wither and keeps its golden glance from which we make bread while flowery beauty has its seasons and temperaments, so we decorate death and give our love.’’

‘’Silence your mouth on beauty of flowers crowning, they still have their scents, few of them belong to the mountains and were given with great love by a wind from the mountains, the wind seemed to weep in whispering echoes when I was laid to grave alive and well:

‘My heart has loved you more than my soul has loved my heart, than I've loved my soul, for what is my soul without you; I have loved you in the eternal, in the scent of flowers far-away, brought by winds sent by gods within, from other worlds where the Great resurrect; love I shall you in withering of flowers, for I taste your beauty in bee's honey..’

Do you understand now, I wished to die to live with a man who was taken on unknown fields; can you hear the yearning of those dead warriors drawn to death to live which became their ending of breaths and loss of wedding’s longing – ‘Ha! I wet the soil with my blood and cheer, no loyalty to no woman, the sword of chastity cannot be shared in bed!’ only to realise.., ‘Ha.., how I wished I had wed you dancing our future as libation to favour the gods’; thus shall possess the last breath of the sword chastised man.
And my loyalty to be possessed by this love of only him became my end, now I am here and cannot be with him after such a long time I do not know of, only be-longing and rotting testifies time when dead...

But what do I speak, you remind me of him and I wish to forget…’’

She raised herself from the dead into the realm of remembrance to face more closely the Speaker to Lover’s Yearning, her ruined beauty resurrected and she was about to kiss his lips but her life collapsed into dust and all what was left was her red velvet robe and flower crumbs.
Her last words when succumbing were unheard.

Thus he spoke:
‘’Flowers on unknown mountain tops, how they celebrate life how they spread themselves in fields of lovers' sources to the hearts of many already gone and yet to come - from life to life; let us celebrate life's colours, see the beauties crowned by flowers, to wither for the sake of flowering faces, unrooted to die in vases but to live in our minds' sewed by girl's loving for her love in newly stitched clothes; for the sake of life and love, for the sake of decorating death - forsaken by love, lovely flower dancing most beautiful on rhythm of storms and thundering earth, how I am about to end, the last winter's flower having tasted nothing but roots denying quench of thirst for the sake of death we wither blossom, we give our love through cut-off colours -Life and death, it is a flower; resurrection is jera for we shall resurrect in the death as we do live upon bread.’’

He took the red velvet robe with its golden stitched threads of whirling suns and gathered the dust of flowers to be released into the wind; the robe to be kept for unknown greed.
Outside he was on his way to give vision to the collapse of the city.

Part 13

Dragon’s delusion, our sleep
Vision makes destiny


Behind the lines of the enemies against the City of Free Slaves - night already, as a dragon of the size of many stars devoured the charioteer with his horses spurring blazing fire as a great force themselves, so each dawn he fights his way out and the dragon spews out the furious god when resting on his gold we call the moon, deluded by what the sun makes the cold rock appear to be, so the charioteer kills the moon and the dragon possessed with greed and hate devours light and fire when darkness is set to come - he made his way through the camp; there it was that he saw the Collector of Heads next to a fire with his nobles, that is, those with taste for blood, the art of fighting and possessing, they who care for their lively blood and not the loot to keep guard in old books about what it meant to people who lived rather than exist, they understood and created, that is, to destroy – the greatest destroyer is the greatest creator, for those who destroy in most effect and widespread are the most creative; unlike the degenerate destroyers who live as they ravage, in a degenerate manner, they know no difference.

When the Collector of Heads went asleep in his tent, then was the time to head to his wife married above mere pleasure and loot, sleeping in a tent next to him with their birthed son; he came in and the most beautiful of the village of youth lay asleep, but by approach she woke in a manner as if she was still dreaming – a man she offered to birth him children to protect her from the one to which she gave a son now, and have his name on her frozen lips when life is to be given to have death not die by life, as the cycles of spirits demand, was recognized.

With steps as if he, so she visioned, would caress her, he headed towards the bed, he raised his sword above her head while she faced lying in bed on her back, the strike above her throat; not before he told her she will be a vision as an initiation to a new season for the city, her son will not be used for the revenge of her people nor spoiled by spoiling with motherly tenderness kept away from man’s initiation – her head he put in between her legs as if given birth to her own death and the baby he laid down where her head once stood firm in youthful beauty and hopes for many a passion.

When sun kill moon after having broken open dragon’s beak, the dawn rises and her birthing of own death became known to the Collector of Heads, he understood his son will be brought up without tender care, the baby son henceforth born to vision his destiny - his wife’s head he held up by its hairs in the sky to face the City, as to say he will be back to face what he cannot obtain in his time; with a great roar he initiated the inevitable doom of the people behind the walls against time.


This is how the City fell decades later in a time close to that of theirs’ but distant in hopes different from their eternal comfort they knew that would last in a season that seemed eternal, but cannot:

The son named Opperhoofd brought winter’s legions and catapulted frozen sickness in their season to rot their decay in a faster phase, from within they broke and opened the gates in hope for salving mercy to continue their past-less existences they thought to last in all innocence which is corrupt ignorance, a form of arrogant deserving and rights they took for granted even from those not alike.

The Young Winter did not even think of melting their glaciers of fresh ice age by taking them as slaves, but killed them all off to have no diseased seeds growing into trees with fruits to the taste of fruitless whores who when they give birth will not grow a Tree of Life but a calendar of whoremongers.


But that all happens between the vision and the will towards the strive, in a time the wanderer bygone.

Part 14

Eye of the Storm
Body needs to breathe
Cold as warmth against dis-eases


Meanwhile reading what happened in the days the wanderer bygone, he was back in winter’s cold in the heart of a storm, for the heart is the clearest to follow, each time the whirling storm went west or east, south or north, he followed until he had to go beyond storming eye which reflects heart’s intent.
His dark brown eyes could not see what was in the rain, hail and whirling of the world, it all shook below his feet and he had to grab his balance until he reached in weather’s colour-blind the outer greyness of storm’s setting.

He was thrown on shore to be devoured by the mighty sea, its waves eating away the sand and its depth within the very coastline as the rocks towered above the water measuring the strength of current and depths to the bottom of the sea.

Taken by the forces equal to gods, with grace of patience and chance he let himself be taken by the current, to not resist the hands of the demons pulling him down and further away from what can be seen as a coast in war with the storm.

At the bottom of the sea in all calmness below the surface, there he found a sea urchin that echoed his death to bear for life was not yet over; passing out in suffocation the storm gave way to his journey and the waves washed him ashore.

By wakening, his heavy pelt of wolf took away his breath thus his body told him it needed to breathe not through lungs but through blood, so naked he stood and searched for wood to burn him warmth to dry and food to eat; and naked he slept for bare nakedness strengthens against comfort weakening immunity against exposure; but already known by cold, his body cannot be warmed by fire, his coldness burns.

Part 15

Wehrwolf
Refresh the memory


On his way to give his sight to possess blind vision in the land beyond storming eye before frosting road, masked men in berserk possession exposing their intent of wanting to raid the man about to become blind in fury, stormed upon him. Before they came into reach of death the Wehrwolf gave possession to the rage of unknown depths; he danced, roared and attacked his own life to live beyond as if resurrected into death already. A wolf howling beyond its place echoing in another time, so he attacked his life in order to defend and devour as a beast hungering for itself:

‘My eyes are out,
wards the enemies within my heart,
forward to life, I take mine,
my tongue testifies toward those facing,
each organ ready to devour their spineless bodies raided,
my fury onward, the tree is about to fall,
the world be devoured in love and cowardice,
screaming the spirits inward to possess my breath,
outward to possess the lungs of they who hear,
they who will not hear their screams in fear,
the tree is about to fall –
I shall raise myself from ash,
and beat my chest drowning in your blood.’
And so he lost an eye in battle when terror was written in between his brows, wine poured from his face and his grape fell upon the yard of vines growing from bloody strive, his eye remaining was alike the winter clouds blue of inevitable fall of snow, forecasting an era of sleeping dragon and eaten fire.

The men behind the masks were in front of the careless one; smile or anger, the face nor the mask makes a difference in front of the one who sees beyond time.
One who is ready to Fall shall Resurrect, a dancer alike walking is to those newly living; embrace death as if already resurrected, embrace the raging beast within as if love to fight for does not exist, just the moment of to be possessed and refresh the memory as such rather than to teach and pollute your vision. May the memory return and retake its turn on the wheel of turning be-longings; for the taste of blood is enough to the dog to howl to its ancestors of the Wild Hunt.