Fragment Three
The self being blind, wandering stray, for this domain, so called cave, yet be it a simple grave, so confident and self assured, yet captured, bounded, mouth and foot, lowered deep beneath the dirt.
As this self delusion, a simulacrum of this selfs dreaming reality, affirmed, the blind affirm the blind, yet who does lead? Grasping hands, clawing in mud, the dead eating the dead, imagining a feast, in the darkness feel the cold steely knives, when knives become brittle and soft, sounds used, made words, syllables spoken, solid against the flesh, pounding on the temples doors yet unyielding, fires stoked but no light to see blinded fools delight to feel it warmth, bear it against the self surely this too the flame will consume, but eyes open, the seeing-self does perceive, seeing danger, turning as the wheel, for this false cave is but a grave, one will endure, climbing free isnt without agony, from the muck and mire, yet the blind do flee, nothing is of use, the blind mutter, we must go, fill our hunger, blindly misinterpret, so spoke prophet this one is a puppet, see the strings, this one does not yet fly, standing above us a liar in disguise.
Be not afraid, fear not, seeing-self, do not shout, do not speak, console the self, make to be the will, will the self, turn as the wheel, turn endlessly.
From within the will becomes wheel, from within the wheel speaks will, fire has become which is the wheel, wheel of the will, let it consume the. Make the secert door, make the self the alter, kneel before Néámhní, place the sword before her, move not til she speaks, in the house of Éðû, turn before the Dragon-lord, bow to his nine with nine directions nine scores, it his laughter be met, and look not back but after.
Prey prayers, make with smiles, sleep deeply, cut away and die peacefully, for the self, one may live by the pen and die by the sword, one may live by the sword but his blood be write his death.
For the womb the self was cut, placed once more within the confines glass skin, studied and gaze upon what one may see, deep in the center the abyss sleeps.
Confound them channel the self essence, be it love, those how do not possess it, know not what it is, confusion but wish to obtain it, behind the flesh they can not wear it.
It is not to constitute moods or minor affairs, but raw material, make relationships of years give forth exasperation, voices of elation, joy of restriction, riddles laid laced in affection, looks that linger far too long, deep into the night, and flesh made song, be it an ingredient in transaction, be it eventually transmuted into life long devotion, yielding forth that which is insoluble, infusible solid unions, the engery given, essence divine, among Éðû and his children.
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Vexed are these words when understanding does not bear fruit, the self will hide behind powerful symbols and sigils, cast aside such teachings, throw the egg image from their midst, place back into the womb, a simulacrum of what exists.
They shall say, we are but aspirants, thus this is delivered unto us doom, into the nine worlds birthed us death, to bring bearing mountains onto our heads. The secrets of damnation brought forth in these teachings, it be doom.
The ending of these words be the nine syllables spoken given, Éðû’s sacred gift.
