Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
White Flame
When, on the morning after
the witches' sabbat, the Horned
leads us up out of the woods and,
to the singing of meadowlarks,
mounts the horizon and,
lambent with white flame,
disappears over the edge,
I've always wondered whether
he sinks down into Earth
or walks off into the Sky,
or maybe both;
but now I know.
I, Steven of Prodea,
Steven son of Russell,
with my own eyes have seen
the Gates of Heaven swing
wide to admit him, and lo!
to the sounding of horns
and trumpets he entered in,
and lo! the gates were shut.
This with my own lips I tell you,
and what I tell is true.
Myth meets myth.
Reconciliation, old with new:
the Fallen, Risen,
the Prodigal come home.
For
Frater Barrabbas
Mage
Minneapolis 2023
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