Fragment One
Born of ash, given to mud, war of circles, star shape path, seed to soil, root deep waters, plots need planting, the knowing folded unknown beheld, make known the self of seeing, folded once more, stars messages riddles written sky's foretelling, to the winged lord they sing, for he is the face-dragoned king, ninefold is he but merely one and whole, in you the image, nine syllable spell, made the letters, Éðû, which that you repeat til mystery come.
Throw the self into the deep, to be swallowed by the sea of the dragon tears where the sanctum of glass and bone sleeps, gifts of fires milk, music flesh, and the egg the self, nine moons pass and two-hundred ninty-seven and three dawns, from the deep the circle serpents speak, "I am three in one, ninefold am I, the womb-work, where the self-egg sleeps, Queen of the invisible-knowledge, swallower of the seed, giver of secret words that make soft swords firm, nurturer of the the self til my thighs become slack, I the giver of the self, til I make firmer than mountains, til the self gives the milk from the bone."
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The face-serpented queen, Néámhní thighs lay spread, the multitude birthed from her wound, where Éðû's sword did throb, came forth all life, her womb fed by his steel, quickens with the milk from his sword, back to the surface the self will rise, from the womb of the wound between her thighs, life anew the egg was bore, a child of both shores, here and hear, the whispers of codes and prophecies, the forbidden teachings of sword and wound, fill anew, nine and nine come to her hands and kissing of her feet and bury the sword in her gaping flesh, new motions stir in the egg, achieved by new motions of the bones, the sword cries out to whom to you wait for? From her thighs a whisper, the dragon, it spoke with a tremor, she shook.
Behold, the self-egg, find the face behind the splendor of the bladed carriage, delivered to you the conflict of the seeds of the path, perfect travel to its place, like honey from your lips, what are the walk ways number? How many paths? Nine, and nine are given, weigh then against the soul, a gift for walking, paved is the way, nine directions, nine different ways, secrets told in ignorance shared but not understood, this is why many slip.
Éðû stretching out his hands, spoke "Destruction in My left and victory in My right", he thrust his sword into her wound and spoke, "but for the making, it is waking-breaking, under My Wheel, the becoming made Will, and she turns her hub along My shaft and We make flesh-worlds beneath the bones of the making-bed", as he laughted grasping his Will made sword long and whet.
