I hail from the
oldest desert in the world.
My blood hails from the
Elder North.
My religion hails from the
mists of time.
I brush my hair with the
Runes of the Allfather.
When I walk the arid mountains,
the staff I bear sings runic
vibrations with every step.
From Fehu to Othala the
ancient songs of Valhalla.
My sword sleeps by my side,
my hammer around my neck.
When I greet the night,
I acknowledge the elements,
the nine worlds and all
the Elder Gods,
and I wonder what has been
lost to us that we have so degenerated.
Ah the eastern alien god
of white light and shadowless.
The extreme vanity to have
taken so much and given so little.
To deny life when there
can't be "repentance"
To steal and murder without
acceptance.
How much richness has gone
lost for the singleminded
greed of the cross hanger's
followers.
Worlds of love, depth, culture...
All gone in a single sweep.
3 million years of Orlog,
3 million of Uruz's vital patterns
All lost in one millennium
of mindless expansion...in the name of?
And now, here we sit, valiantly
struggling to paste together
the torn papers after the
fires have died down
and the inquisitions have
terminated, extinguished and confiscated.
Stories and sagas mostly
written/copied by unbelievers
reports writ by an unbelieving,
disrespectful philosophy
from an ancient enemy who
degraded us to barbarian stature.
The road is long and time
is not really on anyone's side.
What can we say about the
skies of our ancient heavens?
What can we remember that
even remotely reminds us
of the vast body of lore
the quabbalists and others posess?
Poor Incans, poor Indians
and all the other totally or almost extinct ones.
They never even saw it coming...or
did they? Doesn't really matter.
What can we say about our
soul without trying to outsmart the next person?
Can we agree that we have
Nine Worlds?
What about the attributes
of mind and memory? Wodh? Hamr?
Oh woe, my dear Father of
the Slain, woe loving Frigg.
Can we love again, mother
Freyja?
Will we ever endure, mighty
Thunarr?
Did wyrd swallow us whole
and left the remnants
to suffer the loss or are
we to become something entirely different?
Sickness has spread from
organs to bodies to groups of people and whole races.
Sickness coalesced in singularities
to shock others to utter standstill
when the word finally is
out.
Oh the damage unspeakable
as a world wakes in chaos and corruption.
Funny that we have developed
our own forms of swamps. Human swamps.
And at the end of the day,
I look up and around.
I stand on the doorstep
of the oldest desert,
with the high power of an
old arid rock under me...
And what can I say to the
Old Ones who once had
so much sway in our world
of giants and men?
Dear Father of Old, Wise
World Wanderer, One Eye
Guide my blind groping on
the path of this eternity.
My soul is strong and still.
I seak not a path of false
pride and greed, but to fulfill.
The dreams of my youth were
filled with old kingdoms and honour,
grant me then another day
of strength, health and Valour.
Open to me thy vast ancience
and let me see the bigger
picture,
the plan which will make
good of this all.
On the shining plains we
meet again and again,
dear wielder of the spear,
my throat is parched and woeful.
We talk of the grand days
of Runes, Power and the Glory of the Gods
and the Great War of Ragnarok,
but clarity does not prevail.
The white one's midgets
have struck us with their curse of Babylon
and we seem to talk in defferent
tongues.
Lady of the Cats, caress
our slumbering souls and let wisdom and fertility
fill our little realms of
knowledge that we so vainly treasure.
Tywaz, swordwielder and
just...Open the books of the Roads of Rede a'Right
And to the Ladies of Wyrd,
lets meet at the Well of Memory and drink deeply
so that the old songs can
rise again to lips of seeking and minds of Troth and Tru.
