Body is treacherous

I am infinitely thankful for the kind comments poured in my life log. It is here I open my soul for the world to see and gain confidence from the encouragement I receive.
As I sip my English tea – no sugar of course – I salute thee.

Much love,
Lady Astor

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Body is treacherous…
We are taught it is majorly composed by water,
And as water it’s ever changing,
Fluctuates constantly,
Like the Waters in Heraclitus´ river.

As I watch the skies before the dawn,
I observe the position of the constellations
Which have accompanied the fates of mankind
Since the dawn of time,
And scrutinize their seasonal permutations.

The moon is waning, bright and covered in mist,
Light bathing my body as I keep waiting
For answers as time slips away,
As the firmament of Southern Fall
Makes the twenty ninth star of Capricorn the brightest.

Things are meant to never last,
Though flux confuses our senses
As that which we were familiar with
Fades away with each passing season,
Until we inhabit a house that becomes alien.

Body is treacherous…
We were immortals once and we suddenly discover
The earthly residence we once knew so well
Rebels against our very selves,
As wild horses drive to tragedy our bountiful cart.


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The Principle of Hate

Titan! To thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate.

Lord George Gordon Byron
July 1816

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I am sometimes judged as a ruthless, unkind soul. For I have chosen to live passionately, and refuse continuously to conform. I have aged, and yet, the fire within my soul remains untouched. I have changed too much, and wish to change no more.
After being judged, yet again, by someone dear to me, I cannot help but feel frustration. Firstly, of being unfit; secondly of being betrayed. Since for my Gaelic-Roman blood, there is no worse injury than a reprimand on my morals and my pride.
The following rant is a token from the bottom of my dark, merciless heart. Only the very blackest of Krasnodar tea from the Caucasus will portray accurately the feelings conveyed in the following lines.


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For light to exist,
Darkness must necessarily be.
How could we then
Be able to tell
The subtleties of shade?

We are binary beings,
Capable of equal amounts
Of ying and yang,
Of black and white.

We continuously preach
To the rest of the world
About peace and unity
And the power of love,
Yet we still detest our neighbours.

We silently curse
The dirt of bums in the street,
And still pretend
Our leaders not to be our reflection.

It is so easy,
Comes so naturally
To point our fingers,
Look at the other…
And exalt the virtues of the Divine.

But who are we
To preach to others
All the things
We certainly aren’t?

We listen to black music
But cringe at the mixed,
Odd interracial couples
When they’re making out nearby.

We boast of having
Sexually diverse friends,
But vote against the laws
Which would make us all the same.

We hypocritical lot!
We gloat at the very chance
Of casting the first hurtful stone.
And after that we plead forgiveness,
To our friends, our parents or the cross.

Then by all means,
Better we’d be if we felt,
Just for once,
The purest love
Or the most visceral hate!

We would be braver
And purer,
If only we admitted
How we really felt.

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Shadows and Ghosts

I was visited by some ghosts last week, visions of white smocks, too close to what I’d prefer. My mother went under the knife, yet again and myself… well, I’m waiting on some news, which could be potentially daunting. Nevertheless, it is necessary to keep walking the path of life with courage, since we have been through worse before and undoubtedly will be tested in the years to come.


I am enjoying the last warm days in this part of the hemisphere, sitting in my terrace while sipping green tea, waiting for the full moon to rise yet again. It is my own blood she craves, as my body swells each month, each passing cycle, for eons to come. I will, as the eternal laws resolve, also become something different. In my time, a maiden, a matron, a crone…after my time is gone, who knows?

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The death of the hero
Is upon us.
It is the time of the year
To honour the latest avatar
Of our Godly ghost.

Many names he has known
Through the mists of time
And such names,
Still engraved in the stone
Tell of the same unchanging tale.

May it be Hristos or Horus?
The mighty hero returns
In the boreal coming of the Sun
And to his warmth and might
We must recall to sacrifice.

Without memory or reason
Our pavlovian psyches
Repeat the customs of aeons,
As our forefathers did,
Much cruelly, but surely.

For they did know the meaning
Of their moons and dates,
They understood the reasons
We now simply forget
Or turn to fairy tales.

We were once a bright young race,
Beloved by the Gods of yore
And somehow along the way,
We strayed and kept going alone.

How peculiar is it that we,
Even now though strangely repeat
The forgotten sagas,
Or mimic the long lost rituals
In the hope that with each sacrifice
We will be heard,
In the hope that one day
We will know with complete certainty
We are not alone.

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