ETHERITH
Chant I
The Locked Gate of Ethereeen Before all Hope and Future.
CHANT I Verse To Ellendeh
...Reality mere snow, may the winter landscape be crushed by the imagination, as by a collossal sun…
Shelter me thee, Ellendeh, in your Angelic melancholy, born in a well, where you learnt to whisper, as the well screamed back, daughter of pure tragedy and loneliness,...
Fullfill me thee melancholy; my poetic stifled honour in these barren lands, where people walk under great burden without future, without past, fulfill me thee melancholy, my pride, which has equally been crippled and worn, born timeless, in nothing but laughters anguishes.
Give me you, your woes and words for what you have suffered, and bring me your cosmology, drifted over these wastelands of nihiliel, where all castles and paintings and palaces sink to the oblivion of these vast swamplands spanning continents, lost and unknown treasures and lands of treasures…
Where there glory and beauty once is slowly eaten by these black muddy waters...
Give me your pains, which i will with humility, and the only reason for my strength and compassion to survive, leach on to as I hate this world, and its civility and stupidity, transmit thee and your diamond and platinum spirit of sadness, into immortality of the elder and more eloquent ancient like poetic works, as they sighed and wept for that to aqcuire immortality, and for which immortality I am now your servant, brief as these planes and realms are also sinking.
This world, gently sinking into a swamp entirely, carry forth now, through the wretched storms that seperate you from me and this green poisoned sky over Etherith. A temple where i have never heard or seen, where are we? A pool for you here, I am lost here, I drift in these beautiful hallways. I see no roads to the worlds beyond. Where thee roads? Why are there none here. I roam in these temple halls...
CHANT I
The Goddess of Passion has a series of machines to taunt mankind, working on rose and tulip petals, falling gently, touching levers and making the machine tick, on needles the levers dance and carry up and down thousands of counterweights, the leaves never wither, and are taken out of large copper bassins to be thrown on the streets of some village of Hethreds reign here, or perhaps stored an entire such copper cannister like a vase...One of the clocks had leaves counting the deaths on the earth, they were laid in a warehouse on large pillows, with the mountains of deep red petals stowed and spilled across the floor... one clock counted the deaths of trees, another counted the growing number of rats on earth, the slowly unfolding curse too, of the Goddess of passion, to leave none but sheep, cows and chickens in time for men of its eerie ambitions, poor poverty world to come, petals of roses and tulips for the decadents. Petals enough for every winter, petals enough for every one of the 52 subtlest and most ominous seasons of the Goddess reign, many meticulous refined seasons never observed by mankind. Petals enough for more in Hethreds stocks of beauty, such beauty it was more grotesque then beauty, and as such she would look on the modesty of the earth, would you not hate the earth?
Would you not hate reality with her? Locked out from one anguish a sick and bitter kiss of farewell? Lost to eachother lovers that could never touch again. Hethred caniving hatred and sadness, sadness the goddess who is at times baptized Ancholeeem. So complete in grief, with her bleu hair, and her whole bleu eyes, ivory with a woe for a whole world above this world, guarding this rain pouring over reality. Could it ever rain enough for Hate, as she tasted long lost love seeping through the crevesces of the streets, soiled with realities starch being and bleak existence. A miscarriage this reality, she shreeked, over which angels above of sorrow are woken from their sleep from altars of ice, and could only for it moan and with the supreme sadness greave. She that ranted against the sealing the floors of hell what miscarriage this was. The wall of unfortune through which walked the unfortunate. One petal here she would catch in a crystal vase, and there was only one. To bloom like reality once in billions upon billions of years, this poisonous cactus, stingy leaves, leaving much suffering, filled and robed with parasites, how to her all art could this not be a pain, a painstaking agonizing torment to exist and shield her from more beauty that she greeded for... One petal reaching the sky, falling once in her an artwork all to her taste and all for her to die.
Axis, opposed to Atlas, is a patronesse of the wheel of imagination.
She turns and changes course of the imagination on earth.
The guardian and willpower of all of the fantastic creatures and all legions of all mythical characters, heroes as angels, locked beyond the paintings by the curse of Ayris, she spins about riding the firstbull of a cloud of taurus above reality, and under which reality is hung. Axis and all of the disastrous violence of her stampede, churning forces of the taurus stampede in a giant whirlpool locked behind a gate.
One muse Nhaevrael and her sisters were born out of a tear in the darkness as a river hung...While a sensual music seduces the muse Nhaevrael,calling for her, to come to the gate of Axis, as behind her her sisters call her back. She will eventually free Axis, resulting in her own doom, having ignored and so much resisted the calls of her sisters warning her.
Stages of creation are described: first a sky is full of fire, all legions at war; vast suns and angels of fire, chaos and violance, the sky of violance and pure tepetuous mercyless turmoil, nothing unbound and beyond more then fires, in this heaven is one dark canyon, where one muse flees,escorted by desolate knights; 999 999 999 prey on each other and kill eachother, eradicate one another, writing in their somber journey on parchments with ink of a cherry plant against the cliff, they write the suns and planets, 999 999 after those all dead in a pool of destruction write nature, and 9 999 after them write inventions and arts of men, all, and they themselves, kill eachother; eventually take their own lives; until there is no one left but the muse, and the canyon flows in an infinite abyss of darkness, where in it the muse drowns. The muse is alone and cries, and from her one eye starts flowing a tear, as a river in the dark. In the river; long beyond the conception of Nhaevraehl and her sisters grows a spirit world of dream, illusive and illuminated in its nature, as eary oceans of lightest and gently toned light...
In the court of the spirit world, furthrer into this one tear, a court within a world of dream and light, they organize crafts. A stone is crafted that the spirits can not go through, a sword crafted that can split therock. A painting is crafted of the spirit Ayris... that has a thick,unpenetrable surface. SKIN!! Other crafts were arranged, that were to be the abodes of matter. Finally, the last craft, a kiss was staged, that would scatter the spirit world... Hethred, Goddess of rancour, passion and creativity, created in that kiss with the Goddess sadness ancholeeem, reality and matter, tearing the spiritworld apart from the center. Hethred Weaves her daughters by means of a spider, coming out of her mouth, after it bit through her stomach, living in her womb of acid. They rule with her her empire of arts for life and decadence for blood so pure purple in its glutonny of nature dear to them and spill of arts as much as nature wanted,an entire night sky underneath everything, with all suns and planets and moons here for her glowing to serve her as chandeleers, and two black iron pyramids with the tips against each other, hung underneath the floor of reality, where hell in fiery depths loomed, underneath that!! There you would find that plethora of the arts, as vault and storage of absolute wealth. The layers of labour above in that Goddess of the arts and of material beauty her reign, the layers of light amuse and decadence below, where she kept the finest craftsmaidens and the flatterers to her arts in her courts.
Hethred, in jealousy of her lover sadness, that ascended into heaven upon the birth of reality, banishes all the angels out of heaven, throwing them below her reign the deepest underneath, under an ocean of titanium iron boiling, cursed by Acathe herself, Goddess of the underworld, among churches at the shores of the ocean of titanium. Their hearts soft grow worms that devour them each day, breaking apart as the heart tissue is consumed, and be born again each day in a life of futility, mine in the mines under the boiling ocean for mere few talents out of miles marble or titan black steel, mere a few talents that for them would bring solace, a gift, they might beg once at the rim of the ocean of titanium boiling, in the empty churches at the beaches, towering above into the earth staircases, people, waiting, sitting on the stairs, all the wasted workers and all the wasted works and crafts. The very notion of Hethred disciplining her angels, or otherwise punish all those idle in her reigns is mere then to launch the angel of strawberries and her fleet of bomber planes to bomb all angels with strawberry loads and they would get ugly broozes. They would suffer from them for weeks. And they were all too eager to avoid these aches and tribulations.
Shebuilds underneath the world, three giant machines like eyes, hurricanes as engines, blue sky coming through and twisting hurricanes within it,sucking the passion out of reality through the large caves, to lead the passion off down her reign for her to compose her ice storms, icepalaces, fires and fire vases, and vast other luxurious crafts. On earh, Helix and Antihelix, the Two noble and weeping muse of music itself, petrify each in turn in a column sculpture, as the other mourns and sings gently to prohibit the column to crack.The artists and poets on earth, among the rancour of their ways, cursed themselves to become rats, cats and serpents, hold salons for Hethred's daughters,to keep their human form, they must drink the blood of the Goddesses daughters. As an artistice of decadence and artistic hunger and devotion. Ellendeh, born in a cold well, is hoisted in a cylinder shaped chariot out of her well, and flown over a wasteland of art to a temple, lowered into a pool in the middle of the temple, where she will tell of the melancholic cosmology and creation myths.
An army is captivated in a massive dungeon called Rothhalm, pounding onthe walls. Hethred feeds them whipped cream on silver dishes, to sooth them, keep them more calm... Hethred for , terrorizes reality in any way possible to stifle it entirely, has an entire wall built around earth... to prevent earth from growing outwards. In here rage she had the entire wall built from the south and into the center of the world, all for nothing, as a waste… For realizing her mistake she did n’t blink an eye and carried on and lashed her workers her angels to keep their venom in their labour at all and any time, to lock the world within this vast wall.
In the north, above the northern ocean, called, ouwhnorhedhenn, angels were cursed to grow each season, all spring, summer,fall and winter, by themselves, hit all the leaves from the trees themselves, and attach them again every spring, and plant every flower themselves... seated on lawns and hung draped in the trees to paint the leaves and petals Clumsy as they were, they did everthing wrong. Anaehtheana,an angel from Hethred's court, takes to earth. Despite the warning of Hethred, she sets off to challenge earth's misfortunes... bribed easily the lowest of lives of men by Hethreds lead coins, her lover, a deer shepperdess, will be murdered, and to have come upon the earth she must eat her lovers heart soon as she is slayen as one of her deer, anaehtheana knows now what earth is, and sets on with the deer, greaving, but slowly rising her brave temper once more.
The poet who hears the myths as Ellendeh tells them, still awaits to hear his own name, as he has no memory or awareness of time, and he awaits for Ellendeh to tell her the reason for these myths... He will find this myth and will finally see the outcome and what is to become of this city, Anaehtheana, after the end of reality, a time when inspiration tore reality finally down. As she passes on her book, where Hse, the poetesse had once failed, Anaehtheana sets on her quest to build a first city named after herself, as reality fades away, the myth, etherith's temple, as the poet on the splendour of his temple had not money left for a road to the world, way beyond the marshes where the arts are sinking, and where Ellendeh once flew high under the chains and spidersilk drapes of her ghostly carriage bearers, ellendehs tale soon dies, as the further remains of the future are books, lonely, drifting, passed on by one wrancune, their grim beings cloaked in dark robes, burnt books on altars, and cast over realities walls, by series of nine times nine times nine and more such altars, burnt and stowed in large barrels poured on Mountains of books in the halls before the altars and they burn as coal, and carried to the altars, and into the kettles burning books, poured back into the war of muse... from the crevesces in gigantic fortified walls behind the altars, they are hoisted on a ledge, and poured out from massive walls, castles upon castles high fortified walls at the other side of reality, dust on the fires where the fires eat, and turn the dust into cinders glowing for a new fury. Again at the other side of reality. This is where the fires grow, of this war of Muse.
The earth, the heavens, and the below hell had nothing compared to the Orcanos... just had me heard them now, as Ellendeh tells of them, a massive creature for coming out of the kiss of a butterfly "Thee that butterfly that pounded on eartH" "Like a twisted Orcano Her Foot in the Dirth" Orcano these elegant giants that walk with storms that are more ancient and real then anything, in them they wield a butterfly axe with thousands of butterflies hovering or wappering around it. ADoor jou verzonden
s soon as the wind comes, one or three butterflies could be caught, in the rain tranquil still, comes the angel of the treachurous lost poets, always walking with the rain, if you found her somehow you would have Wvhethreyeaelle, betrayal walking in her path, Everyone would become malignant, people would spit at her, the whole air becomes souer. She is a woefull spirit, walking in leather, and a whip and elvish flute, she steels chariots, Or simply treds all deserts when they just grow moist, slowly, as rivers originate, ever walking on with the rains, hopping from one cloud to the other. Always rain, pouring, looking for someone, a muse, a ghost, she appears in a little mirror Hse carries on her breast. Or she stands looking at her, watching her, admiring her, greaving with her in mirrors. Hse presumes gently she is already dead, they can not speak of their own world, too scared to dissapoint eachother in this greusome despair, merely in a tranquil and passive love, at other ends, fighting with the assault of weapons they were given, sickening the atmosphere with their purity. They have no way with the civil, they come and go, idle conversation is plenty, but those to live in the perpetual rain and obscurity of grief have other ends, they are thee end, as sure as sunsets are more romantic then mornings, as much as the dead are already revered over the future borns.
Hethred, as she was cruel, the ultimate cat, with her womb of sulphuric acid, where nothing could grow, the antimother, with a black widow spider crawling from her womb through her stomach and into her windpipe to weave her daughters, the only two cruelties she ever allow in her vast reign was the drowning in massive baths of all the mice of her empire, she threw them in single handedly, and cried bitter and desperate tears as she was so mad, her angels capturing all the mice everywhere, desperate she said again, no, what have i don't, sincerely moved, sincerely in anguish, always again, as the mice in her reign all had trauma's, they have to be murdered, and the second cruelty she allowed only once, was she herself to be a swan murderer to hear the most beautiful cry of the swans song her death, she sneaked up to it, eagerly observing for this one unique and only moment, as she leaped and galantly and beautyifully danced a dance of anguish with this swan, and held her neck, and heard the scream, and she sucked up the scream, and since that time as she knew it, she would have the most beautiful voice of the universe, a voice that would have entire empires of female angels shutter and weep, no matter how profound brave or pristine their hearts and characters. She who weeps at the sight of a piano, who could destroy the universe with pressing one single key on any of those, she cruelty, absolute dread. That could make any wall tremble if she peered at it, with her one blind eye of all religions, and her one gazing eye of imagination, her assymetrical eyes, loensenth hethred.
