The air has been putrid for too long. The northern wind gathers violently. Recriminations are in order. Bloodlust must be satisfied. Boreas rapes without courtship. Defiles without sanctimony. Billows over Civility like an old hag, breaking her hip, to a truer, more barbarous rectification.
Your time is nigh. MENE, MENE, TEKEL, PARSIN. You have been weighed and found wanting.
The Northern wind must carry on according to it’s nature. Winter has fallen and the trees are barren.
Screaming desolation brings home what those insulated by selfish ignorance refuse to condone.
There will be blood and bloody martyrs and a camp of saints erected over the jagged ruins.
The Lord, the Master, the Owner, the Husband extends his domain over the chaotic seas.
There will be a new order and a new ruler and a new law.
And finally there will be a new god, ushered in by a new wind.
Stirrings from within – the den of lions – the meaning of ‘apocalypse’ – the sweetness of the Western wind, the harbinger of flowers, rainbows, fruits and Eros
and the land that was once barren, the wombs that lay unconceived give birth to a new generation and the dawning of a new civilization
The secret of immorality