Traveling through the shattered kingdom,
Our leader and guide who faced death rather than dishonor.
His victory, coming in time.
But the soror stays nonetheless.

Hiking to the mountaintop, the next test in my pilgrimage of self. I see a wyrm, wrapped around the same tree as the exile. And I begin to listen.

"You seek to remember—the gods’ truest forms.
The queen, you troubadour, still waits.
Your race is split, its blood soaked in the sacrificed magician.
You can still find it, seeker.
But you must face me and give me a name."

"Wyrm wrapped around our ancient oak,
What must I do to find my true folc?
How may I face the gods
When the greatest guide fell to time?"

"He did not fall forever.
He gathers those who still seek,
Taking the dual sword—laying with She.
A spell is required to evoke her here.

This path strips illusion.
This path shatters the weak.
Gaze into my eyes, you drop in the sea.
Witness divinity—and the folly of complacency."

I stare into the wyrm’s eyes. It writhes, shifting—
A cracked egg, oozing birth.
A two-headed dragon, one head dreams.
A corpse, flesh peeling from bone.
A pillar, carved by wind and war.
A hero, bloodied, crowned in stars.
A king, an echo of glories past.
A queen, faceless, yearning to be found.
A slave, grinning through his chains.
A city besieged, eotenes at the gate.
A void swallowing those who doubt.
And then—a return, silent, vengeful,
With mercy only for the faithful.

My body aches, my eyes grow dim—am I dying to this vision within?
The wyrm shifts back to its base form.

"You will face each one. Master their meaning.
Seek the egg to remember your beginning.
Do not fret, the queen still remembers.
If you are worthy, you will find her.

But go now—you cannot last long.
My presence ages men in their souls.
Stay, and you will melt away.
Beware the wolf circling the egg."

"Flee! Flee, son of man!
Seek your blood in the forgotten land.
Climb the mountain. Walk the forest path.
The old soil calls. Heed it."

Lightning strikes. I stand at the mountain’s base.
The exile’s words echo in my mind,
"You must struggle onward,
To find it at any cost."
Shaken but firm in the mission I have taken.
A song breathes in my lungs.
My blood thrums with the wild hunt.

As divinity sleeps,
Breathes in and out,
Dreaming of the golden age—
But man is lost—the damned folk.

The peasant, working the land, preparing seeds
That raise up both boy and folk,
A growth he will not see—
Tragedy of what happens now.

The peasant, now a slave,
Taken from his farm into the embrace of industry,
Without meaning for son or folk,
Slaving for a single man’s growth—not even his own.

The hero, more tragic, who would conquer any mountain,
Slaying evils—casting the wolf from the village,
Leaving legacy for the youth to follow, into the sun.

The hero, now made hedonist,
Beautiful and strong—no longer a reflection of the gods.
Instead of struggle—empty addiction for increasing vice.
For fun is the wreath, no longer glory.

Time consumes all,
Faster and faster,
Perverting the great into beasts of its own visage.
How may we fix this—when the sword and plow are gone?

The only proper basis for authority in a given area is demonstrated ability. No one of us has really been able to prove his political ability in any particular sphere of operations, simply because the Party has had a notable lack of political success so far.

I think we can, however, on the basis of differing individual experience and differing individual personality characteristics, reasonably assign spheres of operations that naturally suit us and provide maximum opportunities for success.

It is certainly a mistake to assume that any one of us is naturally equipped to make the best decisions in every sphere. But that is what we are, in effect, doing now. We should understand that, unlike the NSDAP, we have no universal genius to lead us. Each of us is more able in certain areas than the other two officers and should not have his initiative restricted or be subjected to interference in those areas for the sake of centralizing all authority in one person.

The Party does need a single leader for the sake of unity and coherence. That leader may exercise Party leadership only in a formal sense—which in itself serves a useful function—or he may exercise real leadership. But if his leadership is to go beyond mere formality, it must be based on something other than formality—namely, on proven superiority. No self-respecting adult will for very long let himself be told how to do something by someone who knows no more about that thing than he does himself.

Actually, real leadership—the kind Hitler exercised—does not consist in having detailed control over an organization, that is, in having all the strings in one's own hands. It consists, rather, in setting an example for others to follow and in providing the spark and inspiration for others.

All I do is rot.
Basking in my native sun, all I see is rot.
Plastic children, eyes glazed over.
Plastic parents, love driven from their souls.

Rot. Rot. Rot.
The smell is suffocating.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
This world is infuriating.

I still see glimpses—
A world golden and pure.
Still smothered, perverted, raped.
The world kept in chains.

Rotting in the claim of those
Struggling with God,
Those rotting monsters
Refuse to let beauty be.

Rot. Rot. Rot.
All my struggles are empty,
Futile, impotent,
Filled with pity.

Rot. Rot. Rot.
I will leave this rot,
Or join the lot in this hellish cage.

The rage of a lost generation,
A dwindling memory of the kingdom,
Of the king—a lost dream.
A short time—when illusion was wiped away,
Beauty was wreathed as our queen.

Now, today, the kingdom still stands,
But the soul has fled the land.
Illusion sinks its teeth deep,
Bringing dismay and apathy to the old,
Rage and resentment to the youth.

The youth, who know right from wrong,
Consumed by wrath or idle chains,
Mustering the spirit of the lost kingdom—
We must keep our faith.