The Lady is dead.

I drowned Her with my own hands ..
The same hands I use to heal, and pull runes from the Well.

I held Her down. She did not struggle.
As I watched the air escape Her body, her limbs go limp,
The Lord watched over and about me ..
Swirling as dark cloud and mist.

I think She is born old; not as the wiccans say, as ‘virgin’.
She is born from fire at Disting, rising from His ash,
as a white haired, blue-skinned, rust-eyed Gygjar.

She does, however, become young in Spring,
as Hausos – the Shining Dawn

At Summer She becomes Aine,
the Ruler and Refuser of One’s might to rule.
In this form, She flows through my veins ..
The White Swan of Lough Gur.

In this form, as Cnoc Aine,
and its Underworld entrance, She dies ..
Into The Water She Must Return.

As She drowned, churning grey clouds shed tears that swell rivers
That succumb to murmers of thundering skies upon shortened days.

Her voice lingers on warm breeze and dry rusted leaves,
Upon autumn apples that sway upon moist winds.
So it is that one last rite I give to Her:
‘South Wind warm and calm .. Remember!
North Wind subdue harsh storm to come!
West Wind hearth fire burn illness .. and
East Wind remove every unclean thing!’

Lord comes! Howler!

And the trees awoke and knew him,
And the wild things gathered to him,
As he sang amid the broken
Glens his music manifold

Ruddy He comes! Lurking in shadow,
Lingering in darkness no more!
Fierce One! Wild Man! Unknown God!

And so, as the prophet before me, I cry:

Once more, as I tread the Wheel,
I direct my gaze forward.
In terror I lift my Healing Hands
To Thee, then rush towards You.
To He who simmers in my heart ..
To you I blood these stones.
So that, at all times,
Your voice would call me again,
To forever write Your Wyrd –
As fire burns flesh – upon my soul.
I am Yours, even as I dwell among unbelievers,
I am fettered to Thee, Unknown One.
Rage through my life as a storm!
Rage through my life as a storm!

~ ~ ~

Would You Know More, And What?

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