Eald is þes eorðsele under actreo ergo an old earth cell beneath an oak tree

Eald is þes eorðsele under actreo ergo an old earth cell beneath an oak tree

Ic þis giedd wrece bi me ful geomorre, minre sylfre sið. Ic þæt secgan mæg hwæt ic yrmþa gebad siþþan ic up [a]weox, niwes oþþe ealdes, no ma þonne nu; a ic wite wonn minra wræcsiþa.

Anonymous 960-990 AD

In a thousand years nothing has changed. The human condition remains the same. I live alone not through choice but by familial decree. Exiled in kinship I walk the streets alone. In sadness I sing of myself now longer accessed of neither hill nor headland in guardianship of the tribal seas. The Sun that I traverse is infinite and leads full circle far beyond the grave. Such isolation derived of stone once borne by water etched now with exhalation tormented further; fore-sworn  as inherent of sin. The hermit will succumb to those entreaties, of state, of church and contemplate 'err long into the dark and frozen light of your encapsulated dawn.

The iron fashioned by the artisan prevails in torment of this fragile assemblage of soul the exclusion of which is then made complete. The gavel strikes. The chains embrace. The deed completes. I lay down my weary head. The phantasmal at the feast.

The hallowed walls of which we speak consumed. Blue chromaticity of light. Bereft of cosmic time. Of wintered fire. Denied the ritual of life banished, silenced; the earthworm tutored in speech is then struck dumb.  However; the erstwhile maggot pristine in silvered Armor though baited on hook will demand its payment in full.

I seek out only the pagan traveler of northern waters sailed with striped cloth and tempestuous wind in search of clan devoid of ice-flow, flood and encroaching plurality.

The dark age falls upon Rome once more, banished, surplus to requirement of heaven and/or hell.   Memory at odds with tradition full circle regains balance and fortitude of renewed beginnings. The golden age of enlightenment spews forth nacreous indulgence of a truth. A truth long harbored in mind and soul albeit obscured by mist and ritual in appeasement of your chosen messiah. Freedom speaks of struggle, of tortured body, of sin, of corporeal regret; but neither of word nor deed. The gilded sword sacrosanct fired with steel to cleave the unjust without compassion is told a lie in the hands of the pilgrim.

The pilgrim in search of a truth. Innate truths fundamental to human existence denied by its prefabrication of civilization proved alien by the shadow mongers in dominance of control. The barricade has small purpose in barbed-wire, in surveillance, in soulful retreat, as the hoards amass to defend the gates of hell. I turn my achromatic hide toward the blinding Sun to endure the energies of rebirth survived of destruction and disease. Transmogrified into being by your callous thought   and misrepresentations of my progeny.

The slave market thus thrives become commodity you endure in darkness become afraid at the thought of crucifixion and will acquiesce with outstretched palms. The children have gone trafficked then as now in search of Caesars coin and its amazement.

We are told this is the way of light. That we should live in a truth. A truth not of our own making. A truth not of knowledge. A truth compiled in covert diligence of others. Beset as before and ordered to conclusion on foreign made shore. I attest my trials now confessed. The warlord thus thrives. I among them rejoice in blood, skin and bone; but not upon your wounded flesh in defense of a truth. The barbarian is remained content within on prospect of the dawn. The myriad loves made more tangible in procreation equally sired without regret. The gathering of souls, of ritual, of slaughter, of opulence, of sharing, of defense, of tribe, of life.

© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 07 December 2012