Open your eyes to behold the dawning,
The end of your struggle to defame the Gods.
As Taranis lights the midnight sky
Flashes of light reveal the dark god's eye.
Peering out through the veil,
All the gods are revealing
the untruths that you tell....
Wait they did patiently on the other shore,
but now emerge they do, from the 9th wave door,
To dispel your myths and expose your lies,
They will lift the fog from your dying church's eyes.
The time has come, the time is now
This is the time to remember your vows.
The vow of knowledge which you each would seek,
The vow of truth that you planned to keep,
The vow of reverence that you once did take,
It is time to rectify your unjust mistakes.
Recoil if you like, revel with mirth in your jeers,
Soon you'll hear the thundering war drum of years.
From centuries past they will rise to it's call,
Tara's harp sings thus from her place in the great hall.
The Morrigan's prophecy will ring truth in your ears,
It is then you will realize your darkest of fears.
Your faithful church stands on once hallowed ground
where never was there heard the greed of money passing round.
It stood for centuries in respect of the earth,
honoring the cycles of life, death and rebirth.
Till along came civilized man into the fray,
To defame and defile, make forgotten the Old ways.
To add to the foraging, forward did you come,
To erect a temple in which wisdom is shunned.
Cast out and over without regret,
In order to play your bean rattles, beat plastic drums and forget.
You beseeched the reality of truth
time and again it did knock
You danced against the wheel and sought to raise a flock.
Devoted followers, pull the sheep into the fold,
impress upon them the false secrets you hold
Now you can't discern one from the other
of the lies you have told.
Nature has played a grand trick upon your heart,
She attempted to direct you and you forsook her from the start.
She directed you to sources that you might truly seek,
Rather you sucked down all their words and laid garlands at their feet.
High Priestess, High Priest, Poet... Priest of what?
Priest of nothing come hither and judge for us what is not.
Who is it that has the power to deem the position of a man?
Don't you recall that the truth lies hidden by your own hand?
How is it that over time we became the creators of our fates,
and have all but forsaken the keeper of the gates?
How is it that you can't remember that power is measured by the Gods?
We are slight, we are nothing, we are sand, we are sod.
They are the repositories deep within the mound,
We are the seekers climbing diligently toward higher ground.
How do you suppose truth is measured in their eyes?
Carry forth and keep true your ancestry and you will find yourself surprised,
You will find that the fabric of truth is in the tartan of our years,
the magic weave of materials that tells our doubts, our souls,
our passings
and our fears,
Wonderful cloth, the fabric of time,
whose ancestry holds the key to that which is divine.
But you would reject that, ancestry matters not
this is the modern day, all those matters we forgot...
It only matters that it might make you rich,
Monetary value put on the timeless value of the stitch.
Do you remember having said thus my friend?
Believe what you want dear, ancestry will matter in the end.
You will answer to your people whom you'll face in the other world,
They will ask you why it is that never their flag was unfurled.
Why did you not fly the heraldry of your kindred clan?
Did you think yourself a better product than your ancestry's men?
Did you realize at all that you admitted defeat,
and to forget one's history is to be doomed to repeat?
Sleep well my sweet for the time draws nigh,
You are but a apple blossom in your ancestors eyes.
Become a bitter pill for them to swallow,
as you seek for truths that forsake and leave you hollow.
You lay at night wondering awake in your bed,
while visions of need fires dance patterns in your head,
the magical clothing you so love to donn,
leaves you as nothing when you don't have it on.
Even whilst in trance you blunder,
wondering what is this sickening spell you're under,
But with closed eyes my friend, the reality you will never see,
the door of the future lies hidden inside you and me,
the key to the past lies within ancestral fate,
They wrote it on stone, marble and slate,
and yet you rebuke their very words, honor, and pain
your High Priestess told you differently, now their words stain history in vain.
Blood they shed for your freedom lies wasted on the ground,
You enter their tombs in your sleep and yet you can't hear a sound,
you denied their warnings for the other seekers that you found.
They won't speak as long as you won't listen,
They won't show you if you won't see,
They won't teach if you seek to be the teacher,
They will remain a mystery.
In the final moments when you cling to your last breath,
you will feel something strong cleave ever closer to your breast,
and you will know that you forsook them for your monetary gain,
you will remember that rather than being holy,
you were holier than thou and exceedingly vain,
you will feel their infinite presence, their divinity, their grace
you will know the truth of power and your memory they will erase.
You will return again to this plane of sorrow and regret,
to relearn all those lessons that you've worked so hard to forget.
It is then that you will understand the miracle of life,
that learning resides within the past and regret is the nectar of life.
That climatic moment of regression and fear,
that pulls you inward to reflect upon mistakes and forces you to revere,
that subtle thread that is what we know to be choice,
that frozen moment when you listen hard for your own voice,
when you know the key to the future resides deep within your own past,
when you make that ill repeated mistake for the first time and the last.
When you recognize that the future of your people lies in your own hands,
When you realize that the double edged sword is actually the memory of man.
You will recognize the need to uphold the burden of proof,
You will understand the thirsting that is the quest to keep sacred the truth.
You will ache as you lie there breathing those last precious breaths,
when you realize you have failed your own personal test.
You will recognize that you never were that which you now think yourself to be,
and there will be no one else to place the blame upon for your selfish misery.
Guru you are not, Messiah you will never be,
The teacher is the Mother, the lesson plan is history.
Your are solidly woven into the fabric of all time,
your imprint will not be forgotten, will your memory be sublime?
Will you do for your people what they have done selflessly for you?
Or will you revel in your position as keeper of the few?
Thinking always how important is your position in your church,
never recognizing that you are but dirt and stone to mother earth.
May the past rise up to greet you
May your ancestors pull you near
May you feel the icy fingers of time
and hear the chiming of the bell in your deafened ears.
May your forefathers remind you in time enough for you to see,
That the keepers of the future, never forget their history.
Let these words be a blessing of epiphany.
SO BE IT!
November 3rd, 1998