Into the Unknown

And you’ve been gone so long

And you been gone so long
I forgot what you feel like…

You’ve been gone too long. The candle’ s gone off hours ago, the oils are no longer fragrant. The incense has lost its smoky dreaminess, the wine became bitter, the fruit – stale. I fear the altar is crumbling, my Lord.

You’ve been gone so long.

The cards are empty, the signs don’t matter anymore. Old books are simply old, their wisdom turned to folly. The windows are now the color of the smoky quartz, the flowers waned.

You’ve been gone so long.

The voices are no longer here, the music has faded days ago. Hawthorn turned to blackthorn, roses became mere watercolors. Oak leaves lost their roundedness, their edges sharpened at a glance.

You’ve been gone so long.

The shaman became a crow, the crow turned into a linnet, a linnet – into an otter, an otter – into a salmon. The salmon changed into the hazel tree, the tree became a flower.

You’ve been gone so long.

Years have passed since I saw you last, here by the altar. Years and months, days darkened and became nights. The nights turned into the rivers of mist and shadow.

You’ve been gone so long.

The past no longer matters, the present has no meaning, the future is not yet here. The times have changed so roughly and quickly that I can longer see the leaves turning golden.

You’ve been gone so long.

I forgot what you feel like. My skin is numb, it feels nothing. Even your fire would not harm it, it became stone and snow. I forgot what you feel like. My heart no longer trembles at your approach.

You’ve been gone too long, my Lord.

Too long.

Each prayer/Hynafiaid

Each prayer done in my name is done in honor of your forefathers. Each word uttered in my name, brings them closer, for my blessing rests upon those who are gone.

Blessed are those who are no longer, for their light shines on the living, lighting up the paths of the ones who are.

Blessed are the souls of the remembered, for theirs are the clearest ways, and their life continues in Annwfn under the blessed sun.

Blessed are the souls of the loved ones, for their spirits live on forever long after their bodies are gone.

Blessed are the souls of those who are forgiven and cherished, for they are protected and shielded with my love.

Each prayer, offered to me in honour of hynafiaid, becomes a blessing. Each prayer offered to me for those who gave life to the living, becomes a light, shining in the darkest night.

Hynafiaid know. Hynafiaid care. Blessed are hynafiaid, for theirs is the solace and the glory. Blessed are hynafiaid, for they are forever young where I reign.

Pray on, love on- and bless those who have blessed you in giving you life.

Beware/ Plant Gwyn

Beware: my children are well-protected. Vex them – and you vex me. Vex me – and run for your life, for Cwn Annwfn are faster than your fears.

Beware: they are called Plant Gwyn for a reason. They can seem humble and quiet, but the smallest flowers bloom when shielded by the great oaks. My children are well-protected, bear that in mind.

Beware: the gatherer of souls knows his paths. Hidden from the mortal eye, the ways of fate lie – but nothing can be hidden from me. Dare harm my children,and you’ll find me behind your back.

Beware: I will stop at nothing to shield my children. The Wild Hunt is no joke: hurt Plant Gwyn, and be ready to face the horsemen. Hurt Plant Gwyn, and be ready to flee and be caught.

Beware: I am benevolent, compassionate and kind, yet the fire of the Netherworld burns in my heart, and this fire is all-consuming. Mess with my children, and face the flames. Hurt my children- and burn.

Beware: strong is my grip, dire is my wrath, fast is the Hunt. Let my children down, and get ready to face the white hounds of Annwfn.

Beware: no evil goes unnoticed. You’ll reap what you sow, you’ll get what you asked for. Dark is the path of a traitor, and the way of the torturer is filled with thorns.

Beware, for I have spoken.Sharp and fast are my arrows, cold is my sword. Merciful turns to merciless when angered, and better evade me if you want to live.

Beware, for the Plant Gwyn are mine. Their pain is my pain, and in pain I hurt. Their hurt is my hurt, and when hurt, I kill.

Beware, for I am there. And you’ll feel it, even if your are numb.

Beware.

Godspouse/ Midnight ride

He rides at night. One roar of the engine, and he is off, flying with the wind, his hair dark bronze in the gaslight.

He rides at night. Hard rock swirling around him, as the mist might, his eyes flash in the moonlight.

He rides at night. Alone at most times, flying past the sleepy world, sometimes picking up passers-by, who are lost- or would be, if not for him.

He rides at night. Wild as the wind, untamed, unrivalled, unparalleled. He rides where most don’t dare even look, where the thoughts end.

He rides at night. A blaze of silver in the midnight blue, a flash in the darkest night. No one can match him at speed- and no one can, for no steel horse he rides.

He rides at night. Illusion surrounding him, magic everywhere about him. Where they see a roaring bike, a black steed gallops across the sky.

He rides at night. His names are many, and he answers all. His spouses are many, yet he is loyal to them all.

He rides at night. Son of mist they called him. Now it’s the midnight rider. Gwyn of the Netherworld becomes Gwyn of the Wylde Hunt, and you better not mess with him or his lot.

He rides at night. Changing routes, visiting his people- and woe to those who ever vexed them – his wrath is dire.

Of witches, raindrops and fallen leaves

Tell me of witches and fallen leaves, sing me of Calan Mai. Tell me of raindrops and silks so fine, tell me of love that heals.

Sing me of witches that color the leaves from green into golden and red. Sing me of raindrops that shine like the stars, sing me of sunshine that clears troublesome seas ahead.

Tell me the tales of the raindrops, that sparkle on fallen leaves. Tell me of ancient magic, tell me of witch’s brew. Tell me of heavenly creatures, tell me of love that heals.

Sing me of Awen, that comes in all forms, sing me of witches’ might. Sing me of leaves a-falling, sing me of eagle’s sight.

Tell me the tales of the ancients, that dance in the raindrops and leaves. Tell me of spells and visions, tell me that love still heals.

Sing me the song that’s wondrous – both listen to and behold. Sing me the song that sparkles, sing me the song that floats.

Tell me the tales of lost lands, that lie buried in the seas. Tell me of things that matter, tell me that love still heals.

The Lighthouse

I’ll turn this Tower to a Lighthouse (tall and bright) For my heart belongs at sea (shine for me) And to the Deep One in my Ocean (deep below) Lift Your spear, and set me free! (Grant sovereignty!) And the crashing of the stones becomes the crashing of the waves Lightning strikes the bones and […]
The Lighthouse

Reblogging this to aid a wonderfully talented friend and fantastic human being.

Singing in ink

Singing in ink, singing without singing. Singing voicelessly, singing in ink
Gems of million colors, gems that glow in the darkness.
Gems reflecting the forest and seas.

My silent song – for my wildwood Lord. My song of day to the Lord of night.
My only song to the one who calls,
My sunlight song – to the one in mists.

Singing in wool, singing in paths of yarn, Singing in colors of earth and stone. Singing in ways of the needlework, Singing to tunes that no one can hear.

Giving what I can give – in joy,
Giving in praise for the one who stays, Giving in honour of gods and kings,
Giving whatever I can – in full.

My song – for the one who reigns in mists, My song that shines in the time of need, My song – for the one who rules the stars, My song that was given to me at birth.

A year and a day – to serve and praise,
A year and a day to him, who keeps,
A year and a day – to the one who cares,
A year and a day to him, who dreams.

Singing in ink, singing without singing. Singing voicelessly – yet my own song is heard.
Singing in wool, singing without singing- Singing in tune with the song he sings.

I swear by the hawthorn tree

I swear by the hawthorn tree – I’ll love you till the end.

You are the fairest maid I’ve seen,

This love is heaven-sent.

I swear by the hawthorn tree – my heart shalt not be changed,

I’ll love you till the stars are blind,

Though you might find this strange.

I swear by the hawthorn tree- to me you are as rare

As damask’d rose, as whitest pearl,

That blooms and shines out there.

I swear by the hawthorn tree – to you I shall be true.

By all the Faerie lights, my love,

I promise this to you.

I swear by the hawthorn tree – and swear I not in vain –

For you are mine, as I am yours-

We’ll rule the Faerie lands.

I swear by the hawthorn tree- by whitest blooms of May:

A year and a day from now

Together we’ll remain.

I swear by the hawthorn tree, by ash and oak, and yew-

That wildwood dark and flower fair

Shall see our vows renewed!

I will be…

Call me once – just once, and you’ll see. Just call me – and I will be there.

I will be there.

In every ray of sunshine that caresses your skin, in every drop of water that falls from the sky.

I will be there.

Wild as the wind I will be, gentle as the finest silks, fragrant as the last rose of summer.

I will be there.

In every breath you take, in each moment of slumber, in each minute of pain and laughter.

I will be there.

Golden as the autumn leaves, shining and glistening as the first snow, tender as the mother’s embrace.

I will be there

In every cloud that passes by,in the warmth of the sun and bliss of midnight hours.

I will be there.

Sharp as the best swords, full of scents as the wildwood, radiant as the brightest diamond.

I will be there.

In your children’s smiles and in the touch of your favourite clothes. In your lover’s embrace and in his eyes when he looks at you.

I will be there.

True as true can be, ardent and loving, wise and compassionate, noble and kind.

I will be there.

In your dreams and walks, in your dusks and dawns, in your summertimes and winters.

I will be there.

As your guide, your friend, your mentor and father, your lover, your knight and your king.

I will be there.

In life and death – for my vows are made for eternity.

In sickness and health- for my word cannot be broken.

In day and night – for my name is Gwyn ap Nudd, and I pledge thee my troth.

Kings of Seasons

One – abundant, as summer, colourful as spring, yet crisply frosty, as cinnamon, ginger and cardamon in the snow, as amaretto tinged coffee drunk slowly in the first hours of November.

His are the midnight rides, speed of the chase, ardor of the Hunt, passion of secret meetings and romance.

His are the spectral hounds, Fae trains, summer showers and wings of Ravens. Northern winds and violins, roses in bloom and hawthorn paths.

Another – somber and silent, bleak as an early winter, triumphant yet sad, all mist and shadow. His are the grey silks, velvets and silver hunting horns, white hounds and pale moonlight.

His are the slow cantor of horses, frost-bound forests, high grasses of vanishing summers, rime-bitten rowan and juniper berries.

His are the smoky aromas of frankinsence, myrrh, cedarwood and bergamot. His are the early evenings of December, embers of ancient fires and pale dusks of autumn.

One is the ruler of the Traveling folk, another- the king of the Netherworld. One is the fire of youth, another – wisdom of the ages.

One outshines the stars in his splendour, with eyes that are brighter than the Faerie lights. Another calms the storms with a single gesture, his eyes as blue as sapphires in the moonlight.

Two kings, two rulers, two Lords of seasons. Two gods, two hunters, two masters of mist, shadows and rains, dreams, midnight rides and mysteries.

Two kings – high masters of hidden treasures, guardians of souls, guards of the sacred sites and waters.

Two kings of changes, transformation and world cycles, forgotten tales and the legends of evermore.

Arawn of the dying sun and Gwyn of the shining mists. Two kings of Annwfn- different as day and night, and yet so alike.

Two kings – two magicians- two teachers of mine.