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Rated: E · Prose · Cultural · #1393985
A message to our modern world and what we've forgotten.
  This is my death song. This is the telling of my tale, preparing the heavens for my coming.

  I am the sacrifice. I am the hecatomb heads upon the wall. Gift a second's silence and witness the consummation of an unconscious request. I shall be Christ-like in my passion. This crown of thorns digs deep...and you deny me.

  It is I for whom all the treasures of the world were never enough. I have found starvation in plenty and thirst in the depths of the deepest well--and you mistake it. I face a vicarious death. This knell is not for me, my Judas, my Delilah. My keening wail is called to a thousand-million reflections of my soul; for whom I cry...and die. I sing my song, or it shall not be sung--as never before and never again. I begin:

  Tuatha de Danann, your vision poets know me. They prophesied my coming as they divined this death in the face of a destiny of which you're forewarned.
  Beloved of Sinann, she lies languishing by the shores of the river Shannon. You curse her in a thousand foreign tongues; and yet, for you, she suffers in silence.
  Children of Eire, her emerald gift in your eyes, you torment her with unfamiliar footfalls. In her pain, your name, she sorrows. Your high-tor hearts are a windswept desolation of a nation and your faithless mouths choke on blood-born covenants of your fathers. Standing stones weep silent tears of a monolithic aeon. I mourn for you.

  Bonny daughters of Scota, fair eyes flecked with highland hearth fire. Still-water lochs echo a diatonic dirge...a soul frequency the pipes play with perfect piercing pitch. Fair Mother, your sons find no sustenance in the precious wombs of your daughters.
  I am the fertile earth in the rhythm of your veins. You return to me when every beat of my pulse summons forth an image of something lost. Hear my call: I die for you.

  Sons of Albion, empire-makers of the stalwart heart. You shaped the world in your image, and lead them forth now into oblivion. You embrace every sickness of spirit and take obscene pride in each stygian accomplishment. The saceed groves groan beneath the burden of filth you invite and protect. Mighty fall farthest, greatest extent and depth. A heritage cries for surcease...and I weep for you.

  Germania, fatherland of the bi-cephalic eagle, mother tribe to mighty nations; guilt-stricken followers of a design of self-death and death of self. You beggar your begotten for the benefaction of those who would destroy you. The anvil of an alien will has broken your spirit. You are dispossessed of courage, while traditions die a death of degrees. I bear shame for you.

  Fearsome Norse, fartravelers, leaves of my own cherished branch; pitiful cowerers in your solitary remove. Wanderlust is smitten from your hearts; boldness is beaten from your countenance. Longships lie forgotten and Valkyries turn their heads in shame at the submission of their men. Valhalla lies vacant as Odin's pride. My kinsmen...my soul aches for you.

  The Gaul and Goth, Teuton and Dane--the tally too long for telling. Every one is branded in my flesh. I am the living stigmata; focus given form. I am palest echo of former glory. I am loss so piercing. I am the shallow façade of the corrupt heart. I am the desperate dance amidst the ruins. I am the decadence of self-absorption, the decay of misplaced compassion. I am the willing dishonor of the daughter and the craven shame of the son. I am the death of all dreams.

  Set my bier upon the vessel. I am prepared. May the fires of my immolation burn the scales from your eyes. Clasp my hand 'round my defiance...I go to meet my fathers.


  This is my birth song. This is the sound of my re-emergence, transformed, from the unconscious.

  I am what cannot be denied. I am the scion of a beginning salvation. Observe as I take my place among the men of my tribe. My weapons lie before me: the soul-conscience of your blood, the revolt of your spirit, the wrongfulness of your existence. And you feel me.

  I sing now to you who have known me--and knew not what you saw. This is my inborn purpose, a latent revelation...a part of me more akin to soul than mind. I give myself--for you are me in this conjoined corporeality. A duality. I beseech Brighid, ancestress of poets, the time comes where conception and execution are as one...grant me the nine gifts of the cauldron, for this is something to be said:

  I carve this stave in the Ogam script, know that I've been gifted with the knowledge of the trees. I am your paradis that plays a symphony to your druidic heart--open and hear my song. Remember Avalon. Myth is but a pretense not to strive. I am the Celtic knot that binds you with blood ties. Let there be a sunset to despair. Love your own...and I will stand with you.

  Highlander, I am newborn joy at the first cry of life. I am the sudden appreciation of your ivory beauty. I am the echo in your soul of all that you've forgotten, but will remember in time. I am the rosy-cheeked blush of an innocence not yet lost. I am the Wallace and the Bruce...and I will fight for you.

  Briton of the Saxon blood, I am atonement. I am the fiery purification of every sullied tradition. I am the righteous slaughter of the iconoclast. I am dignity. I am generations untold in the stones of the tower. I am your forefather's blood in the soil. I am Rule Britannia...and I will speak for you.

  Wotansvolk, I am your pride. You have courage to face the world locked within...I am the key. You are a nation, not a name...I am your identity. I am the silencing of the serpentine whipers in your midst. I am the sword held on high. I am the rejection of guilt. I am when history is no longer his story...and I will remind you.

  My Northmen, hear my runic name and know me as your own. Let your blind eyes see. Who will write our eddas? Who will sing our songs? Who will stand and sacrifice with all the heroes gone? I am the fire still burning in your blood. I am the far shore never seen by blue eyes...calling. I am Thor enjoining you to fight. I am Freyja soothing your wounds. I am the saga about to be lived...and I will lead you.

  I am the glorious vision of the baby at the breast. I am the promise of a 14-word phrase. I am the power of an honor that we create. I am the battle cry in the face of certain death. I am the loyalty of the daughter and the courage of the son. I am home and hearth, kith and kin. I am absolute meaning in a world of dissolution. I am the quest to reclaim lost destiny...until my soul flies this casement. I am my people. I am hope...and I will live for you.

  Set my lamb upon the altar. Let my plea fly to the heavens. This is my prayer that, by the Gods, words DO have meaning.
  This is Hamaraz Sangwaz.
  This is my Hammer Song.
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