Aschatria - Poetry

( on Yule, The Longest Night)

There comes the Arcatu on the first of a snow,

the Orb of Night meets the Immortal Fowl.

As the Hiemal Cold enters, walked in by December,

Sacred spirit animals of the snow shrine

make place for the words to come in life.

In the wind brittle as a sharp knife

those seven spirits continuously chime:

hear-hear, hear-hear.

In this night, deemed the darkest,

deemed the coldest, the longest,

I see what I have been given,

I know what has been shown,

at the dawn of this day

the Tree ascends up ahead of our way,

and the Lord Amedhya rises and becomes today,

the made being to live for me,

to sail the traversing sea.

I accept it, endlessly grateful

to carry it with me into the forever.

Two waters I give to the Moon

in imaginary palace,

a mausoleum mansion to endlessly wonder

for their fruits are

the Decadence and Deception.

I give them

to walk under a Orb of Night one day a month

one as a shadow, a black and deaf rat,

another as a ghost, a color changing cat,

hand in hand together to stare

at gracious silver floating silent

across the sky, and fascinated to long

but never to know each other.

Third water I give to an Immortal Fowl,

a warlike type of a thing, into

the modest stone nobody notices

entwined with the bounded companion

because Their fruit is a Malice.

I give to them

to rise at this day only once a year

into a chamber of mirrors to be reminded

and to greet to a given one who caters on

infinite dejection as their only friend.

Fourth, of the earth standing static and cold,

I fulfill their burning wish

reason which are untold

to inbound within a part of a living god,

because what is a human but not as a part

and I split their mind, to be truly apart,

because their fruit is a Prestige.

I give them to obey and serve but

never shall rise, never shall descend,

forever to hold that cup and pray.

For all their favors I order their gift of life

into the Arcatu to pour, to dwell, to twirl,

never to explain, stop or rest,

never to regret, respire or resent,

spending force unwise in a struggle and deceit

with blind eyes closed in a nightmarish fever,

to howl what Arcatu speaks, written weaver,

and quickly come to terms on their own.

Of indefinite importance is that magnificence,

inside of the Time be as a pounding life,

a never ignited flame, a desire,

they conspire to that pyre,

assumed by a holy fire.

So it shall be. I banish these parts from me

and make place for future of things to shine

into an existence of the created being.

Poem is descriptive to what it is about. In Sanskrit 'arcatu' means 'Praise!', and what is the best time to praise the light than the longest night.