In the windswept deserts of jinn and fire, there the first blades were forged from star tossed metal, blades of exceeding quality, drawn from sand crucibles in the earth as the nomads moved from place to place, wild and unspun, hair long tied with goat leathers, and deep breaths in icy mountain steppes.
Some blades are destined to cut well; some are designed to be an instrument of Will. Some are both…
Ancestors celebrating, bows still humming softly laid up in the cool; toasting and drinking from skull cups, proud in freedoms, brooding in halls, horse ridden across the valleys and deep night skies; a panorama opened to those with the sight, hashish spirals drifting lazily from the seedless tops scattered in brass braziers carved with the old runes. Who can tell of the portents of starlit skies, mutable moons, and the inky blood in bone vessels?
Even now, They guide my hand and eye. Stygian tastes, reflections in manner and mood, the serious manner of Kings.
And for each King, his Fool.
Stretching this Temple, this spiral encoded echo of time and circumstance. Freeing from such circumstance, to happen upon…? The great unknowing of the unfolding, the endless possibilities. If “as by chance”, if the blade is true, if the communion is truer, then another step into Knowing. My Ta’us, my Melek, my radiant Friend, walk with me for a bit on these eon-washed cliffs. Let me kiss Your mind.
I ain’t coming home tonight…