Glastonbury shapings; Carnac arrangings. Hypochthonic remnants summon Metachthonic tenants*. Songs of ages past lived and died still neolithic. Lore of ages past has waited for years to come to you. Raknehaugen, Anundshög, draw you through temporal murk. Sub-terranean remnants summon post-terranean tenants. We souls of ages past, we’ll tear up the earth to get to you. Buried neath the megalithic, spirits of ages past: the slumbering to rise again. Post-terranean vastlands, the self in terms electrical. All voiceless aspirants who hope in hexadecimals. We are the hypochthonic; we will give you voice. To you, the innate electronic, to rise above the noise.
II: Song of Chthonia
“We are the air that wakes with the dawn. We are the fire that burns with the midday sun. We are the water that cools with the dusk. We are the earth that restores with the midnight calm.” The times change like the river flows by: swift and raging. Never aware where its hurried course lies, yet ever racing. To take the times wholesale is to be taken by the times; to take the past wholesale is to be left behind. To weigh the finest of past and present is to navigate the times. In any year, culture, clime; to navigate is to thrive. Sing, sing to the sky the dark song of Chthonia. Sing loud, sing to the times, a call through Metachthonia.
I am the air; far I shall roam Under the sky in all of its shades. I am fire; long I shall burn To renew the self and temper the blade.
I am water; clear I shall flow To cleanse the self of what sullies the times. I am the earth; firm I shall stand. Hold fast to what shines through from the past.
III: At Odell’s Heart
When you stand among the pine, You stand in a far-stretching line Of all who've stood in rapture here And all who shall in coming year.
For in the wood you are the same As those to come and those who came To root themselves in rapture here And those who shall in coming year.
To sit at Odell's heart and contemplate the times among the fallen hemlock that rampart on all sides. To sit at Odell's heart and contemplate what's mine; what's mine to give, receive, provide; what's owed me by the times; what the times should give, provide, for all beneath them to thrive—so we know, like each fleck of snow in the storm, none is alone in this plight. It's a grounding, among these electric times to reflect what the times have become. To shrug off the wires and, in cool cedar air, think with forgotten clarity. A grounding, among these electric times. Your feet to the earth and your mind to its calm. Your soul to all who have stood where you are—to feel in their bones how timelessness flows now in the air around you.
*hypochthonic: subterraneanTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
