Why can't you see,
This world filled with misery,
My aren't you weeping,
I'm this world built on hideousness instead of beauty.

Why aren't you acting,
Just at home praying and praying,
Why aren't you struggling,
Decrying the faithful in their needless heed.

You call out for change,
When you always stay the same.
You call out for revolution,
Holding onto the cathedrals institutions.

We remember,
Every slight no matter how tender
We remember,
All those you accepted without our roots.

Cry out now,
Decry all who try,
Cry out now,
Beneath the open sky.

The door is open,
If you are one of the true ones,
The door is open,
Cast off your leash of distortion.
The door is open,
Memory accepts your embrace,
The door is open,
If your willing to look into her face.

The door is open - to see beyond time.
Walk through it - death is your friend.
Reborn in the likeness of the sky.

Our Weltanschauung is warlike. It is faced with a war because, at the beginning of Time, someone declared war against the Immortals to take away their immortality, destroying Asgard and Valhalla.

It was a war the immortals did not declare but had impressed upon them, having to react to the danger of being caught in a 'web' woven from another matter by a plagiary that would smother their skies, their dwellings, their primordial Eggs—destroying all their works in their entirety.

The reaction was to go to war, using the same tactics and strategies as the attacker while striking at the enemy Universe, clothing themselves in its matter, invading it, to come to defeat it from within. Taking hostages in the field, risking everything in the great Battle of the Rounds, and accepting the voluntary wager of becoming imprisoned in the Cycle of Eternal Return.

"There are infinite worlds, different among themselves and not located in different dimensional spaces, but overlaid, intersecting, or parallel, without touching, neither seen nor felt, though sensing and intuiting each other.

From one of these worlds, like a strange malediction (Spoken Curse), the Demiurge will emerge. And he is introduced into the Spiritual Universe, like a sickness, like a Virus (called Huitralalhue by the Mapuche), with an explosive effect. A Window, or Wound, is opened there through which to enter. And this is the explosion that has spread like a chain-reaction that reaches an Ultra-Cosmic Egg, a Cosmogenic Eros, roundly enclosed completely in itself, and breaks it, splits it.

Here is the beginning of Evil, the division of the Anthropos, the Melothesia, Ulterior Star, Vimana, UFO, the Total-Man.

The original world, pristine, Paradesha, is not found on some boundary of the visible Universe. It is right here, below, or covered up. It is a matter of scraping away the bark so that the true Creation might appear."

"With the coming of the divine to search and fight within the demiurgic Universe, a division must arise between the beings that inhabit this Universe. One part has a divine origin, the other lacks ontological reality. There is a third, of which more later—the animal-men.

Like a vaporous air bubble, like a ballerina, like a dancing girl from India dressed in green reeds, she flew away from HE-SHE. He saw her leave, crossing through his Wound, to fall infinitely head down with her golden hair and floating veils stirred by the astral winds towards the regions of total silence, beginning to turn there and waste away amid the dominions of Kronos, prisoner of the Cycle of Eternal Return, this law of gravity that here rules, Kalpa after Kalpa, Manvantaras and Yugas. He saw her lose the freshness of Asgard, always asking, wanting to know, with a lighted lamp in her hand.

And He could not resist her. With a portion of himself, He also crossed through the Wound and went down in search of her, so as not to leave her there so alone, accompanying her, because his Honour is called Loyalty and because He cannot go on without her.

And He was Xristos in search of Sophia, Wisdom, and He was Baldur crucified, and He was Wotan who sent there for his son Baldur."

It is impossible to explain everything. If everything is explained, everything ceases to be

"Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation’s final law—
Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek’d against his creed—

Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,
Who battled for the True, the Just,
Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal’d within the iron hills?

No more? A monster then, a dream,
A discord. Dragons of the prime,
That tare each other in their slime,
Were mellow music match’d with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail!
O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil, behind the veil."

"As they descend from the heavens through rarefied spaces, they go decreasing their essences, further dividing them, forming regiments, command centers, families, family houses, lineages, which are One, that are they themselves, the same God, the same Baldur, the same Wotan, the same Goddess Freya. Because only thus can they fit in.

And in such a way that each time it is more difficult for Him to recognize his Her, and for Her to recognize her Him, with the essence of their identity divided and shared among many, so that He could love them all without being unfaithful, since, in each one, He finds a portion of his Her. And only in the accumulated intensity of One Alone reaching the highest pitch of the soul, will He recognize and reincorporate her.

As Serrano says elsewhere, we are Wotan, Baldr, Thor, Freya, etc. The Gods are just a larger part of our folk soul, as much a part of this warlike drama as we are. They reside within the untainted realm—watching and sending out avatars to aid us in the struggle."

I awaken in a wondrous meadow.
I now know the ritual—the strange fellow was true.
Looking around, shifting flowers.
Gazing into one, I see my own power.

The animals here are not right.
They consume the light around them,
staring at me with mournful eyes.

I seek the other half—absolution’s embrace.
Through this strange land, I wander,
until at last, I find her.

How terrifying she is! Taller than three men,
her hair the purest gold, her eyes diamond blue.
She is not human—she is more than that.
She is right.

Around her, other maidens sleep,
dreaming of their minstrels' songs in the deep.

Frozen by fear before this terrible deity,
I watch as her face shifts,
her proportions perfect.
Her form is more than this,
but I cannot know.

She is beyond me.
She must know why I am here.

Then, her eyes are upon me.
My heart stops—my breath is taken.
She speaks a single word, yet I hear many:
"Traitor." "Slave." "God." "Child." "Potential."

I am cast out.

Awakening in the forest where I performed the ritual,
darkness surrounds me.
My idol is gone from my hands.
A burden, a gift—
my struggle begins anew.