11 Apr Anointing of Winds and Might

Let not oil depart from thy head.

It sleeps in the meat of the soul, sleeps afraid,
Chewed through whole with curses,
Blemished, spotted, dry, decayed,
This is the tale of the self-unmade.

Ego wishes for the impossible, wishes itself dead,
For an earth covered with stars,
For a heaven brimming with bread,
For cosmos discreated and unsaid.

Nothing gained from birth below lest one gains the birth above.

The memory poses a formidable fight
Against itself, against sense and sight
To trouble not the quivering morning frost,
A spirit which drifts into pieces until lost
But not Forever, nay, Never and Ever:
Spirits hover on strands of silken light.

Out of prison and chains a Man cometh forth to a kingdom.