Dormant spirit of the forest, silent underneath the iced blanket of snow, awaken to these anguished prayers, screamed from the abyss of a collective soul yearning for purifying fire… Arise to the thunder of the drums beating like the ancient pulse of the earth, and set us ablaze!
Orphaned from the Mother, we suffer the torment of a pain unspeakable: breathlessly, the music carries it like the soaring mountain currents carry the black eagle flight. A violin melody, so sad it could spill out tears made of rain, caresses like a ghost the surface of a deep dark lake.
Relentless is the beauty of the instrument which chords pour magic transcending human pettiness and arrogance. Who are we to judge, deny, adore or take possession? The raw sounds, primordial shamanic spells, pour like raging waterfalls or gentle droplets. We foolishly try to adorn our skin in them.
No, not us. Not any more… Only the wolf can feel the true pulse of the Mother through every cell of its lean, hungry body. Wilderness rising above all morality and intellect in its pure state of being, where life must feverishly fight death simply because life is and death is not.
Entranced by the soft strumming and the sweet agony of the violin, we form a circle in the depths of the forest. Tormented, we dance around a roaring fire. Fierce and hypnotic, the drums raise wind whirls that dishevel the soul, lost in the illusion of conquering an eternal place in the Womb.
Nocturnal shadows scream in forgotten tongues, murmur suavely against our ears. The heartbeat of the forest is one with ours: there must be a way back to our lost primordial spirit. Eyes well up, but not one droplet spills over our chests: it should be time for strength, time for courage.
Rebellion? Echoes of a marching stampede; a bitter human voice delivers blows as sharp as a sword; a storm of riffs howl like a pack of wilderbeasts. Unrelenting, the tribal forces keep calling: once again, thou shall withstand the infernal blaze which will lighten the horizon up to the vaults of the sky!
Exalted and painful, brave and beleaguered, emotions pour into scalding notes piercing through the angst which spawned out of the original seed of our tragic existence, dressed as new – but old underneath. Our heads spin in confusion inside the baffling space-time paradox.
Infinite and devastating, the sounds that arise from the universal blaze surpass the feeble voice of human embitterment. In spiritual combustion, souls consumed by self-centered solitude finally come together. A single silent ghost stands alone watching the fire storm from the emptiness of distant shores.
Cold spells froze the spirit and the land into glacial nothingness.
Forsaken the Mother, we despair of our dormant souls. Useless are our prayers to unreal gods, insane our choices. When the Void becomes mirage rather than fear, we know the time has arrived.
Hope, such fragile word… Yet, its strength is that of the Phoenix rising again and again at the sound of spellbinding, ragingly glorious melodies which tame the soul with beauty or inflame it with passion. Until the final tears will ultimately overflow and extinguish the hell burning inside us.