From door to door death awaits each invented body. And all bodies in each realm where consciousness must appear, shall dislocate, falling into dissolution !
Where the gods have brought about all nations and peoples, death awaits patiently, kwowing herself to be the only victorious one and herself as the purificating absolution of all living creatures. Death is what makes the outer corpse of things, the diadem of princes in another world.
What has strived by its very nature to be Noble here, shall in thru the next door be the Noble Thing accomplished !
Once iron's imprisoned being has passed from this everlasting Dark and Black Age, his awareness slips quickly by the narrow entrance, and lo and behold the immortal, from all corruption and blank uselessness will embrace the heros he'd seen often times before in his soul's Sky.
After all, what was that that went on inside of you ? All those coarse dirty metals which had somehow clogged your body's nostrils...
You were but a stone fallen from heaven and now as before in this earth baked furnace, the breath of you writhes like a holy serpent-dragon still fighting the Good and Just War upon those who would have you stuck in the mire forever, where precious things cannot, will not stay!
From door to door, into heaven's chamber where even Paradise would not be good enough. All who were there, now here, are not all fallen with broken wings. Some have come with their holy feathers, but only thru the Black Sun's dark door, behind beyond all the projected geometrical figures, will they have regained their usage. The Gods help those who would dare know, yet would not aspire to filthiness !
The Mysteries are not for everyone, and will not lend themselves to those frightened by spectres derived from the vulgar man's wishing mind. With every people having seen and seeing life in the Iron Age, few are best, few are immortal : these anonymous few are in themselves their own law, and are the Good Ones, the friends of God and in Invisible Light the Brothers and Sisters of the Angels.
From here to there.........................
...from iron to Gold, not here but elsewhere. In the Place where golden things belong.
From door to door. What could one add, or take away, that would make it other than what this Age would be. The crumbling of all those imperfect pragmatic concepts which lead astray. Which have led far from, across the existential cycles of dust, the solid things made by yearning souls, distraught at times, in their lonely exil.
For each Universal Concentric Cycle there is a corresponding Continental State : What is wrought becomes,
and then wittingly or unwittingly undoes its perplexe dissatisfaction.
The spiritual warrior abides above the riddled fainting images
He stands, even when he has been beaten to the battle turf :
He shakes from his primal face, as he goes from door to door
What clings to the Immaculate Beloved !
