The Druid

01/06/2017


His face revealed on the lascivious surface of prayer the human and metaphysical attempt of union. From what separates us, the only shadow is the light of day, a mercia that robs us of the dance of fairies.

The wind of her hair spreads the precious garden of events to come, though nothing was revealed to the druid or doctrine by the habits of the Goddess.

He would never tread a path that in his bowels would result in an absent wound or an unresolved fear, for it is only salutary the strength awakened by the struggle of his own journey.

We fear the darkness when the light becomes our all intimate, so we fear the light.

In the blind ages, verses of power inhabited the place beneath the bells a human circumstance. Not infrequently, they spoke of folly as doctrine and intolerance as a baptismal font.


At the heart of the forest, the owl awakens to the old religion the intimate incident, the secret ceremony, the voice that does not separate from the song of truth.


The silence lingers over the fragile breeze that penetrates the night, but tomorrow will be different, for fires will rise with the vigor of many glimpses that float over the celebrations of Beltane.


Carlos França