PossesseTh' by Fire

The hollow rotundity of the world, which has the shape of a sphere, is itself invisible in its totality, by reason of its quality and its form. Choose any place whatsoever at the top of the sphere to look down below, from there you cannot see what is at the bottom. Because of this many believe the world to have the appearance and quality of a place. For it is only because of the forms of individual things whose images seem to be imprinted on the sphere that one believes it in a way to be visible, since it appears to be like a painting. But in reality it is in itself ever invisible. Hence it comes about that the bottom of the sphere, if it be a part of or place in the sphere, is called in Greek Hades, for idein in Greek means to see, and the bottom of the sphere cannot be seen. Hence also ideas are called forms, because they may be seen as forms. Therefore, too, the infernal regions are called in Greek Hades, because they cannot be seen, and in Latin Inferi, because they are at the bottom of the sphere.

“Alas!’ he writes, ‘I am morbid, And have put a purple colour about my brow. All men seem eating and drinking the “Joy of the Round Feast,” while I am Melancholy and silent, as though in a Gloomy wood, astray. Strange images of myself did I create, As I gazed into the seeming pit of others, Losing myself in the thoughtfulness Of my unreal self, as humanity saw me. But alas ! on entering to the consciousness Of my real being to find fostering "The all-prevailing woman,” And I strayed with her, into the path direct. “Hail! the Jewel in the Lotus.”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑁𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝐴𝑠 𝑎 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝐹𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝐺𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑜’𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡: 𝐴 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝐴𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒, 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑚, 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑦, 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑎𝑦. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑒, 𝑊ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑜 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝐹𝑜𝑟, 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑐, 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒’𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑖𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟; 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜-𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡. 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑡, 𝑊ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑔𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝐴𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟, 𝑂𝑟 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡; 𝑊ℎ𝑜, 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑟, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑐 𝑂𝑓 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑠. 𝑆𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑚 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑦 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟ℎ𝑦𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑦 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑐, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠, 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐴𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑠, 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦.