At first I was joking when I used to say I was 'going back to the Bronze Age', but quite soon the joke was on me and I found myself enshrouded in the crepuscular Keltek dusk of Kernow's tewlwolow husk.
The stones broke through like teeth emerging.
One finger points to another.
A long shadow cast by the moon.
Defend, Cultivate, Observe - study the Universe.
Honour nature.
Unlock the code.
Discover what is to be known - nature, the stars, people, the ocean, insects, your dreams - all one.
Well the ray of the moons' glow bounded off the tongue of a sleepless lark and glittered hard against the Druid's old stone tower. Some things never change. Bits of sunlight glimmered, glistened, glittered and glinted in a shimmering frazzle of dazzling glare, looming and rearing up all radiant daring to blaze through the haze and shazzam through the fleeting vaporous spindrift shimmer.
The eye of seeing saw to it that the mind of knowing knew the deal.
Nature resplended in its entire perfection.
Nature comes with thorns.
Nature comes with horns.
Nature flows inseparable from the mind that perceives - thus, 'you are the eyes of the Universe.'
The entire fleshy, rocky and salt-water-croc-riddled trip centres around ye, the experiencing perceiver at the centre of the web, the heart of 'reality.'
Well, if the whole Empire of Dust is pulling one way, might as well pull the other way, blazing up with the fire from the diamond-eyes of the stars. Blaze against the cold steel rail, the numbing aparati of stagnation and the death of freedom - blaze away and rave, rage and rant - it's always better that way. Rock the joint with ten thousand watts of pulsing rhythm and the wailing and popping cones of a hundred speakers, barking and yelping out their joyful song of life. Just don't turn down the music if you want to meet the Muse.
***
Stay back where you are - you wouldn't like it here - this is not your place - stay in your age, you'd despise these weak and sneaky moderns with their stinking fire-chariots and their life of utter weakness. There's nowhere left to run a horse and the game's all gone. The chase has been replaced by the queue - they have these things called 'supermarkets' - stay where you are, my dear bronze ghosts, for you'd certainly hate it here. All the towns are in the wrong places and nothing is aligned with nothing - Says it all - stay where you are - I'll come to you.
***
Rita Abatzi - One of Greece's greatest singers of our era:
Some stuff about my book, The Horned Whale... a Celtic Mystery Tale from Ancient Brittania
The pathways of the sky, painted across the land - a gift from the Old Ones, for those who have eyes to see.
The stones broke through like teeth emerging.
One finger points to another.
A long shadow cast by the moon.
Defend, Cultivate, Observe - study the Universe.
Honour nature.
Unlock the code.
Discover what is to be known - nature, the stars, people, the ocean, insects, your dreams - all one.
The eye of seeing saw to it that the mind of knowing knew the deal.
Nature resplended in its entire perfection.
Nature comes with thorns.
Nature comes with horns.
Nature flows inseparable from the mind that perceives - thus, 'you are the eyes of the Universe.'
The entire fleshy, rocky and salt-water-croc-riddled trip centres around ye, the experiencing perceiver at the centre of the web, the heart of 'reality.'
Well, if the whole Empire of Dust is pulling one way, might as well pull the other way, blazing up with the fire from the diamond-eyes of the stars. Blaze against the cold steel rail, the numbing aparati of stagnation and the death of freedom - blaze away and rave, rage and rant - it's always better that way. Rock the joint with ten thousand watts of pulsing rhythm and the wailing and popping cones of a hundred speakers, barking and yelping out their joyful song of life. Just don't turn down the music if you want to meet the Muse.
***
Stay back where you are - you wouldn't like it here - this is not your place - stay in your age, you'd despise these weak and sneaky moderns with their stinking fire-chariots and their life of utter weakness. There's nowhere left to run a horse and the game's all gone. The chase has been replaced by the queue - they have these things called 'supermarkets' - stay where you are, my dear bronze ghosts, for you'd certainly hate it here. All the towns are in the wrong places and nothing is aligned with nothing - Says it all - stay where you are - I'll come to you.
***
Rita Abatzi - One of Greece's greatest singers of our era:
Some stuff about my book, The Horned Whale... a Celtic Mystery Tale from Ancient Brittania
The pathways of the sky, painted across the land - a gift from the Old Ones, for those who have eyes to see.
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