Our night sermon
hovers still on the air.
Frees our slaves,
breaks the hourglass and
transmits a message to our ancestors.
On this abbreviated day
let us no longer be afraid of the darkness,
but celebrate the shadows and fall
entirely
into revelry of the concealed truth.
Where infant gods, born of stone, scare away spirits.
The dark zone of our candles
radiate
an appreciation of the cycles.
Moving us
past the shadow of the slaughter stone
into a bluestone oval
with songs sang to Mithra, as she extinguishes wishes
with her breath.
Yule logs rage a fury
over darkened forests, as shadows dance
on the coniferous wall.
Acting out ancient rituals
witnessed by pagan priests
and the monster who continuously consumes
2. " into a bluestone oval /with songs sang to Mithra, / as she extinguishes wishes / with her breath. Captivating imagery.
thanks, it came from a celebration for the winter solstice at my house
A most beautiful poem… The angst of pain is vibrant in.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A truly beautiful and unique poem... who are our slaves... and who are the infant GODs, if you don't mind me asking....the poem is the message? ? huh? ? Love it!
Thanks Nate
Saturnalia was an ancient roman tradition around the winter solstice where the romans would free their slaves for a day and the masters would give them table service etc. Mithra is also Greek/Roman god that appeared from rock in child's form could take life with her/his breath