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Black Bacchanalia
- Black Bacchanalia -
When the Moon is, in the heavens high,
And the night is radiant and all aglow…
The time for the crimson harvest cometh nigh,
And the face of Diana Lucifera, the gods do show.
The air is crisp; the breath is rendered pure,
Te tide is high, near every slick wet shore!
On such a pale evening, strange things occur,
In elder times, this is how things oft were…
Behold the dark pilgrims, clad all in black,
Behold the lightning and the thunder crack!
The robed ones move slowly up a mighty hill.
Chanting they are, in tongues from ages long dead.
They are come to sacrifice a life, to ritually kill,
And most eager they are, to stain their hands red.
Atop the hill is a dark and twisted grove of ancient oaks:
Some say the trees are giants who have not yet awoke!
What those giants have seen would drive man mad,
Could they describe what their wooden eyes have: seen.
Even, if living human tongues they in fact had!
The Devil mayhap, or Lilith the Devil’s Infernal Queen;
And countless old spirits, both good ones and bad!
The Druids of Darkness were most powerful indeed,
And kings did their bidding, whilst heroes oft fell…
Slain in combat with many of the Children of Hell.
Sons and daughters of gods that walked in flesh,
Who craved the taste of blood spilled always fresh!
Vampires, werewolves, and demons of the Abyss,
Some said these they were, and stayed well away…
From incubi and succubus, and their oft fatal kiss.
Hide from them, mortals, and wait for the light of day…
For is thy ignorant fear not truly a fear of forbidden bliss!
Art thou monks or nuns, to fear every secret delight?
Thou art afraid of the pleasures that thou wilt miss.
Be not foolishly afraid, but come and embrace the Night!
The altar is made from solid blackened stone,
Seeming to rise from the rich and equally black soil.
Yet this: was not raised by men of flesh and bone…
For no human had a hand in that long forgotten toil.
Though the blood of such hath nurtured it ever since,
Their skulls now stand in pillars mounted on either side.
All for the delight of Hell’s supreme Princess and Prince,
The Demon Lady and Lord who doth there, eternally, abide.
The pilgrims of the Fallen One’s own ineffable will,
Who are bathed in the glow of the Moon as it doth gleam!
An inhuman frenzy overcomes their once-mortal reason….
In orgies of lust and death, they seek to know every thrill.
They do all that men and women are never even dream!
Every perversion, they partake of, in its’ own season….
For no chaos is too frightful, no madness is too obscene.
Nothing that is done or not done in passion’s flowing stream!
No wickedness is beneath them, no delight beyond their grasp,
For they are the faithful of the Dragon, the Jackal: the Asp.
Screams of mortal victims, all throughout the woods, are heard,
Music for the pleasure of those druids, to enhance the hour…
For no cruel eccentricity, this night: is too strange or absurd.
It can only add to the building of unholy energy like a tower!
The spirits of the hill demand a mighty toll,
And they drink their victims: dry of blood, of life, of soul…
The wildflowers will surely bloom, watered with such rich stuff.
Yet, still, the gods are thirsty, they cannot drink enough!
The twisted Bacchanalia is over, the participants are spent,
Their pleasures given into, their insanity given vent!
They linger in the grove, basking in the raw, primal, power…
Whilst from the soil’s grasp is released, a single crimson flower.
When the Moon is, in the heavens high,
And the night is radiant and all aglow…
The time for the crimson harvest cometh nigh,
And the face of Diana Lucifera, the gods do show.
The air is crisp; the breath is rendered pure,
Te tide is high, near every slick wet shore!
On such a pale evening, strange things occur,
In elder times, this is how things oft were…
Behold the dark pilgrims, clad all in black,
Behold the lightning and the thunder crack!
The robed ones move slowly up a mighty hill.
Chanting they are, in tongues from ages long dead.
They are come to sacrifice a life, to ritually kill,
And most eager they are, to stain their hands red.
Atop the hill is a dark and twisted grove of ancient oaks:
Some say the trees are giants who have not yet awoke!
What those giants have seen would drive man mad,
Could they describe what their wooden eyes have: seen.
Even, if living human tongues they in fact had!
The Devil mayhap, or Lilith the Devil’s Infernal Queen;
And countless old spirits, both good ones and bad!
The Druids of Darkness were most powerful indeed,
And kings did their bidding, whilst heroes oft fell…
Slain in combat with many of the Children of Hell.
Sons and daughters of gods that walked in flesh,
Who craved the taste of blood spilled always fresh!
Vampires, werewolves, and demons of the Abyss,
Some said these they were, and stayed well away…
From incubi and succubus, and their oft fatal kiss.
Hide from them, mortals, and wait for the light of day…
For is thy ignorant fear not truly a fear of forbidden bliss!
Art thou monks or nuns, to fear every secret delight?
Thou art afraid of the pleasures that thou wilt miss.
Be not foolishly afraid, but come and embrace the Night!
The altar is made from solid blackened stone,
Seeming to rise from the rich and equally black soil.
Yet this: was not raised by men of flesh and bone…
For no human had a hand in that long forgotten toil.
Though the blood of such hath nurtured it ever since,
Their skulls now stand in pillars mounted on either side.
All for the delight of Hell’s supreme Princess and Prince,
The Demon Lady and Lord who doth there, eternally, abide.
The pilgrims of the Fallen One’s own ineffable will,
Who are bathed in the glow of the Moon as it doth gleam!
An inhuman frenzy overcomes their once-mortal reason….
In orgies of lust and death, they seek to know every thrill.
They do all that men and women are never even dream!
Every perversion, they partake of, in its’ own season….
For no chaos is too frightful, no madness is too obscene.
Nothing that is done or not done in passion’s flowing stream!
No wickedness is beneath them, no delight beyond their grasp,
For they are the faithful of the Dragon, the Jackal: the Asp.
Screams of mortal victims, all throughout the woods, are heard,
Music for the pleasure of those druids, to enhance the hour…
For no cruel eccentricity, this night: is too strange or absurd.
It can only add to the building of unholy energy like a tower!
The spirits of the hill demand a mighty toll,
And they drink their victims: dry of blood, of life, of soul…
The wildflowers will surely bloom, watered with such rich stuff.
Yet, still, the gods are thirsty, they cannot drink enough!
The twisted Bacchanalia is over, the participants are spent,
Their pleasures given into, their insanity given vent!
They linger in the grove, basking in the raw, primal, power…
Whilst from the soil’s grasp is released, a single crimson flower.
Published 15th Aug 2013
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