In my vision, I saw Nature again, my Lord I saw Nature at her beginning singing her song opening up my ears with the sounds of branches, waters, breezes and bees And Life everywhere springing from this brown and green, lush and harsh earth
Nature, I know her eternal trap: Strong by beauty, humble by silence, She waits for us to start again and again in our immense obeying to Your universal goal.
Your indiscernible Love makes a furtive call “I am Here” and suddenly I’m rounded by the swarming scent of sweet boxwood and . everything swells and cracks with a slight noise, Resin in the sun; The wind, at the top of the trees, All Nature is of Himself, You, the God, myself the slight Bride to Your Light, Your hands steady on my shoulders, this healthy and chaste passion, My body and soul, a nest to carry the living Among this whirlwind of seeds and swarms, Nature need not allow charnel, straying evil Yet You, great King, add the mixture of acrid acid lustings among the spring leaven; the desire for a more divine love than human delusion can repair
Who could decipher this silent night? her numbered stars brilliant and secret the monotonous sweetness, her unique color the vast, absolute borderless hieroglyphical glow of her, an eternal and mystical monument,
Peaceful night always caught between air and death. Peaceful night, energy torrents of light flowing over rocks emanating her cold and sad perfumes of existence and, us, in our cellared earth, parting pale and grave, souls of days and their spirits
Our primitive hours serving as distant reminders to our worried desires so defiant in daylight; In the day we are pensive even solemn, but it’s grave and glorious night where the scented spaces swirl around us, and I want to trace my name on your white stele and meditate upon you inside the frozen heart of night.
It’s me, Cassandra. And here is my city covered in embers. And here is my staff, my prophet’s ribbons. And here is my head full of uncertainty.
That’s right, I triumph. The fire of my reason licks the sky. Only the prophets that no one believes Enjoy such shows; Only those who got it wrong So that everything happens as quickly As if they hadn’t existed.
I remember now, distinctly those who before me, stopped listening. Their laughs choking. Minds unraveling. Children running towards their mothers. I didn’t even know their names. And this my song written on the sands No one bothered to sing it
I was right. But then, nothing comes of it. And here is my blouse charred by fire. And here is my prophetess hardware. And here is my stony face. A face that didn’t know it could be beautiful.
And it is this night, the blue night of a thousand stars when a million holy evangelicals bending the night softly but severely, their arcs waving like sails, pulsing through his beauty his strong limbs above me while starlight wings wave angelically
through the matrix of infinite history’s cold streams running over beds of stone embalmed in mystery, and cries of prayers Sometimes lightstreams escaping throwing off bolts of lightning, in shapes soft in the distance, covering the climbing hills
My lover moulding the shape of my heart his fingers like fog smoothing over my cracked gullies, the earth rising beneath me lifting me to the sky, turning to catch his kisses love that is still poorly defined is the very definition of love Itself, Love as a verb a virginal love turning erotic Love opening to first ecstasy forever, together we call out for the merciful God who will protect us from all evil, our eyes on the skies where the fire is rising to a clapping far off thunder ending in a song of glad blessing and penance
Do you see him? There From the high tower with a torch in hand?
What does he say in his deep, tender voice? The torch falling from his outstretched hand, ‘Oh, I will be the One who will create your god! The fires howling around me, rising flames a huge quarreling of red eagles flying through the black and swirling smoke and wind
The god melts gold that flows around my marble body, a blazing splendor and ardor silken short shivers bursting and all the the dying demons sing to the flaming having understood that he is the One; he is my god; my cries singing into the air my hurricane soul rising, resigning
And he, proud god, over me the crossed arms of a king, his glancing eye opening up the sky reaching the furnace of all Light whispering prayers, my own prayerful Being: Has ever a woman died from singing?
Refusing my sacrifice, he assured me without difficulty that it was all just a mischief and artifice used to strip my pride of its lies.
Dressed up in silk and gold Beautiful demons dance, teenage satans sing a waltz to the Seven Sins of their five senses.
It’s the feast of the Seven Sins: how beautiful they are! All desire shining from their brutal eyes, appetites sated are the quickened sand that they harness with lusts pouring over their lives like pink wines into crystal goblets
Dancing rhythms gently interrupted by the beauty of voiceless men, their moans unfolding, throbbing like waves through the cosmos of lust as the Light that was leaving them, grew so powerful and charming that around them all, the countryside of God was blooming with holy roses and diamonds in the grass;
In vain the demon party danced In vain the satans, her brothers and sisters failed to grab her away from the Light;
She has resisted all hugs, and her sorrow becomes a black butterfly branded to her forehead, burning with jewels;