Look at this face, and if you have not already, then you may come to realize that the

appearance
reflects the spirit, that the body is in fact the living embodiment of the spirit's characteristics, limits,
tendencies and will.

This face tells you that in a war, he is the first in and the first one to die; he has loyalty to honour that
cannot be understood through education, it is natural to him; he may have a family but will never raise
his children for duty calls to protect his wife and children to fight the enemies still on distant land to
prevent them from coming near to his family and property; he is intelligent and compassionate but
does not cower for executing a captured prisoner of war - a man of character and endurance, of labour
and family, of war and strive, of peace and reading.
Compare this face to that of a Modern Economic orientated Cuck's face, so dominantly represented in
our age; chubby cheeks, a chin not yet double but can come falling down any moment at age thirty; a
childish expression with not the innocence but the meanness and deserving attitude of spoiled
children - a Manchild from bourgeoisie be-ing class, who when he has power will abuse it, let others
do the dirty work while privileged himself for not having to climb up because everything has been
given, he has a wife and children but never spends time with them relating to nature, sports and
animals; the kind of a ''man'' who when duty calls for war, he is the one trying to obtain a ''rank'' to
either be excluded from the warrior's strive, or to give safe orders, or be stationed far away from the
actual fighting, always sheltered and always his corrupt bloodline passed on from generation to
generation; that is how cucks survive.

But if you look at this face of strive, loyalty, endurance, compassion and merciless mercy (his mercy is
to kill and execute clean, no needless suffering) - you see he is rare; in ancient times they were more
''common'' and young men were trained to become warriors and women were given no other value
than to give birth to warriors; throughout the many centuries of wars such men were the first to
sacrifice themselves and the Socratic, Christian and Secular-Humanist doctrines having had an
resentful impact upon the gene pool of our peoples in favour of weakness, ugliness and cuckoldry, this
face can be seen suppressed somewhere in our society, hidden in this unnatural world of Economic
priorities and cuck perversions, or as it is presented here - a statue's head capturing the moment of a
rare face of hardship, loyalty, good fathership and labour; he sees the future and embraces it as a will
of higher gods guiding him to his certain death in violence, but ever living through heroic inspiration for
others to look up to, for women to be reminded with what kind of men they should bed and what kind
of children they should birth; reminding young men how to embrace strive and how to sacrifice their
own lives for the higher ideals and for wife and children to protect: to remind us what our people lack
today and what kind of blood has been spilled; during World War II, these kind of men were the first to
die and too many this time have been sacrificed and had not have the chance to inspirit a strong
woman's womb to continue such a line of bloody Nobility; can we return to beauty and strive, that is
our present day's difficulty to answer, not as a question but as a duty, a task we must fulfil - too much
has been destroyed already and too many of the ugly breeds, the lower classes and Economic
inverted Elites have survived and been propagated.
I Heil to all Men of Valour and Women with Courageous Instinct.

Once you lose faith in Nature, you distrust potential understanding which relates to knowledge.
Knowledge alone corrupts the soul, you have to do and be or else you are nothing more than a piece
of storage machinery designed for Modern intent (meaning, a tool for destruction and corruption).
If only we would still see Nature and natural phenomena as inspirited forces, the commercialized and
economic living standards would have never corrupted us as much as it has already done so.
I start to see and feel the (hidden) spirits everywhere, or try to; you can mock me, but I look upon you
the way you present yourself to be - an empty shell with the spirit of Modern superstitious ''superiority''
looking down upon our ancient ways.
You think you can replace us?
You only replace yourself with replicated Modern thought and ''value'', which means; to be equally
loved is to be equally disposable - that is your value and superiority.
Heil the spirits of Nature,
May the Elves guide us!

A Mans End
A story to continue of prose, poetry, philosophy, dignity - I write through unknown 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 mans worth,
a womans 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 seasons 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 so he lived.
The gods among us, fighting against their raging willing;
I will! I will scorch the heat of forging elements, I will burden swords weight,
I will challenge willing of higher Fates!
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
pigeons 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 gods among us against Noble detriment is to be with our fight,
Challenge so to forge swords strive So to dance Norns webs in destined life.
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 peoples 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 kings 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 forgot 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 whove 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 mens 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
enemys 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
moons 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 days 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 womens 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 mountains glaciers and
collapsed upon the earths 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 womans 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 mans sword and key, what to think
after taste of blood, it erects the mans will to subjugate and penetrate into the deeper realm of the
enemy, ones self; materially or spiritually - either to destroy, for pleasure, or to create.

And the poet of swords ink and phase of dance wandered on.

Part 2
Wholeness,
Heil
Sieg Geist

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 Geist, as breath is
spirit breathed from wherever you are, the surroundings will animate your stofwisseling and by
becoming conscious in Geist 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 birds 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; breathe the pines, the eternal of life and
taste its death of cycles.
In the forests 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 wolfs skin was too thick and
breathed already another past, another spirit; but he had a scarf in possession unworn by womans
hair and untouched by perfume, he used it for his face but knowing the scarfs intent he became
distracted by yearning for womans 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 wanderers 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 robbers 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 wont 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 ones 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 ones own could easily be sold or sacrificed
to the foreigners 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 mans 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 snows 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 days 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 weve 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 minds 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
wolfs 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 others 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 mates, 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, hes
alike a man who never bows his head and thus the sword strikes its aim, while he who isnt 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 opponents 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 selfs remaining
Overcoming beyond loves of self
To love the becoming of the coming hunt
Is the Strive of love of self yet to come
Dawn to rise alike howlings 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 roses 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 middays 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 dont 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, dont 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 mans 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 citys 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 lets 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 dogs piss testifying his fools bricks.

Part 7
To steal by giving
Cyclic intent
The citys 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 citys 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 citys mad-goat.
The goat at ease was telling a story about a Helen and the surrounding events, a name of an otherworlds 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 cant you are not in union with the pasts 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 citys 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
That is the value of beauty war.

Alike the village now known for its cries and lamenting women of youth.
The war from within to attain yourself in the image which is to unite, the war to obtain for the sake of
taste, the war to create is the peace of the Noble, the war to compete, the war to be at peace but
ready to sacrifice for the moment to behold, the sun to rise and the rooster to initiate its cycle it has
breathed to announce another:
Agon, to become what was, like the fragile cub dependent upon its mother and father to grow in the
image of its past, the ancestors - or a weakling walking on air about to collapse.
The citys 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, Helens face is fading, look around you, who here looks like the
past; we are the future, the eternal season.
The citys 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 wont last its madness when confronted with so many of
common taste and senses.
Behehe
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 citys 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 citys 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 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 hosts 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 Ones will by guiding us to the greater will; strength is, to acknowledge
you have none and all is by Ones 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, Ones 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, dont 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 dont 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 womans 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 ones 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, dont 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 leftbehind 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
hates you all, by his perception, you dancer with grace, you are a limp-walker; and you, oceans
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!

See Ruskins 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 well 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 womens 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 citys 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 mans chin
broken in his throat; a chin that testified he never grinded his teeth out of bodys 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 citys 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 Strongers blood as
living and the others 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 gishjlmur,

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 suns 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, dont 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 weddings 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
Lovers 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
Dragons 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 mans
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 dragons 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 wifes 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 winters 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 winters 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 hearts 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 weathers colour-blind the outer
greyness of storms 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.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Wild Hunt
Resurrection into death awaits only the Great;
Only the 'Equal' shall cease to be
Already in life and beyond forgotten
For they are and be the far too many.

Love and Hate

Genuine love is when you stretch your arm out into the cold
to reach and embrace the warmth of another amidst the frost,
to give and give up your own comfort and warm yourself in cold blood
so hatred is too.

Hopeless Strive
When hope dies is the gaze into the eyewink of eternal sight
The eternity of love and hatred in you to take on
The sword to clash against giants beyond tides
A flood that devours all what testifies long gone times
The moment you say goodbye to all in thy heart
But feel just the beating in heartless echoing

Lamenting memories in the chest of a lost battle

A silent breath ready to be the last and let go of all life
To return to what lies in deaths layers of forgotten ruins
To step over the footsteps of gods from times bygone
For God is a forsaken Lord living in the dreams
Giving hope and will-less slumber sleepwalking in day
Despair is awakened to have faith in hopeless Strive
For once hope dies is to swing the sword
And make the heads bow their final prayers
To take the odds in own hands
Against all hopes.

Holy Death Wholly Life

To die holy death where blood shall pour
Alike good wine bitter after sweet
Thunder with lightning but after to tremble
Skies blue of clouds to coldly weep
Letting go wholly of life alike ancient honey
Giving taste to bitter death sweet to lifes riddle

Mein Kampf
Es ist Krieg mein Mdchen
gehen ich muss zu Kmpfen
als Rittern am die Feldern von schlachten
Im ewige Schwerter ist die Loyalitt
Hrt die Schlagzeuge von donnernde
Trommelns geben die Rhythmus fr Herzen und fue
Die Heilige Liebe ich habt vor ihr mein Mdchen
Ich fhl nicht doch das Blut strmen fr unser Land
Wiedersehen wir in die Halle von Gefallene Liebem
Du bist mein Fall im Kmpf, mein Grund
Zu leben und sterben zu bemhen und erwachen
Krieger fr ewige Minne und hinter Liebe die Will zu Kmpfen
Ohne dich und leben mit Gttern verfluch
Mein Kampf ist die ganze Welt in Friede.
It is war my girl
Go I must to fight
As Knight at the fields of slaughter
In Eternal Sword lays the Loyalty
Hear the drumming of thundering
Drums giving the rhythm for hearts and feet
The Holy love I have for you my girl
I feel not but the streaming of blood for our land
See each other again we shall in the Hall of Fallen love
You are my fall in battle, my ground
To live and die to Strive and awaken
Warrior for A-Mor and past the love the Will to fight
Without you and live with gods damn My struggle is the whole world in peace.
~ Sjoerd Heeger