Þine eyes close shut, and enterest þou þrough dark doors.
As þou awakest into oþer worlds wiþin þyself,
Þy mind’s eye beholdeþ þe blood red welkin
Þrouth leafless boughs
And bare branches above,
Resembling þey dark veins upon þe crimson æþer,
It markèd also by þe heavenly bodies.
Þe Moon up high shineþ full
Over þe blackened Earþ below,
Looming large across þe sky.
Ice cold winds caress þy mortal flesh
And white snow blankets þe forest floor around.
Þe paþ before þee lies markèd
By þe footsteps of unseen, unknown travelers.
Silent is þe night, and so too is Le Voyage forþ,
For þou art Þe Lonesome Wanderer.
When endly þe trees doþ part,
Reveal þey þe horizon yonder.
Þou seest now yon mountains tall,
Þeir snowy peaks piercing þe frostbitten air.
Gazing up higher still,
Þou seest again þe Moon,
Ever gazing down,
Watching þee in silence…
Now,
Turning þine eyes downward from þe zeniþ unto þe nadir,
Seest þou before þee a great lake encasèd in ice.
As þou trek þiþer and look into þat frozen mirror,
Þou beholdest a cold reminder of La Lune above.
And for a lengþy moment, þou contemplatest her pale visage.
When endly þou breakest þy gaze,
Þou lookest left towards þe trees lining þe lake’s western edge,
And from wiþout, looking in, known now are þe true depþs of þis dismal, dark forest.
Þen þe silence subtly slips…
Þe ice starteþ to crack, and þus wiþ it, so too doþ þe sight of þe Moon reflected.
Þe shape of þe heavens above
Shatters.
And þou seest now, which þou couldst see not prior,
Þe blood red waters below, seemingly growing higher,
Þat finally reveal þemselves to þee,
For from beneaþ þe ice, þey break free.
Rise þey do until but steps short of þy feet.
Þe ascent stoppeþ as suddenly as it began.
Þe waters still until þey are again discrete.
All nearly returneþ to quiet, but þen spy someþing, you can.
Surfaceward it drifteþ, making itself known
And washeþ upon þe snowy shores wiþ base last.
Gazest þou upon it and seest þe ruby stone
Markèd upon its face, and gold trim þat contrast
Wiþ þe duskiness of þe cup, þe shade of þe stem.
When þou reachest for þe black chalice,
Þou beholdest an image of une femme,
And now sensest þou a strange sort of malice.
Þe longer þou lookest into her image infernal
Þe more entrancèd þou becomest by her beauty æternal.
Fillèd already is þe cup with þe liquid incarnadine,
Þe scent sharp like þe blade of a guillotine.
Despite knowing þe drink may be accursèd
Þou liftest þy cup and makest þyself immersèd.
Now awaken do all þy senses.
Ominous energies dost þou feel.
Þine entire body tenses
Wiþ power sharp as steel.
Swirling colors envelop þy vision,
Forming no clear composition.
Þe myriad hues form a þick cloud.
And seest þou not þrough the shroud.
First blinding whiteness,
And now total darkness…
Þine eyes open to face þe night sky, shaded now a dusky blue.
Standing upright, þou turnest þine head to þe strange lake.
Þe ice lying upon it still irreparably shattered.
In þine hand claspest þou still Le Calice Noir.
La Femme once engravèd on it,
Now replacèd by þe visage of a black wolf,
And when into þe dark waters þou lookest,
Þou recognizest þy body not as þine own,
But as þe woman of þe chalice, whose form now houses þy soul…
Þe cold wind bloweþ norþward,
Gently pushing þee wiþ it þiðer,
En route towards mountain yonder.
Þou allowest þe unseen force to carry þee,
And over þe waters þou driftest effortlessly
Until þou reachest þe northern shore.
Þe wind sets þee down carefully.
Before þee, skogen, þe forest, again awaits þy presence.
Der Mond, þe Moon, still hangs high in þe heavens,
Always watching…
Þou enterest into þe dark forest.
Þe light gradually fades þe furðer thou goest.
Þe many wooden limbs of þe many great trees
Fortify þeir lands,
Preventing þe besieging light above
From penetrating inward
To infiltrate þeir home.
Only is þere enough to perceive þe paþ traveled.
Ne more be necessary for þee.
Silence is þe law of þis land
And þou hast not desire to break it.
Only þe rustling branches above are permitted to disrupt it.
Someþing in þe forest absorbeþ þe sound of þy footsteps,
Softening þe noise þey ought to make.
…
Time has little meaning in þis place.
Minutes may have passed, or even days.
Unknown to þee is þe number of grains fallen down þe hourglass.
Mayhaps þe night haþ no end.
Die Nacht hat kein Ende.
Þe wood is deep, but it appears boundless.
To put forþ þe question of depð would yield no answer,
For þe forest is an embodiment of deepness itself.
Þou canst find many paþs and many doors,
But never an end.
Dette er den dype skogen.
Þis is Þe Deep Forest…
…
En hytte i skogen.
Ahead canst þou see it now.
A small structure ov wood,
Lying gloomily alone.
A stranger once was here,
But has seemingly long vacated,
Yet þou approachest wiþ caution,
For unwise it would be oðerwise.
Þe wind brusheþ against þy left fingers,
Þine hand openeþ, and flame is born.
Cradled in þy palm, it giveþ þee light,
And illuminateþ þe cabin.
Þe doorway stands bare as þe door itself lies inside.
Dust and dirt have made þe dwelling þeir home.
From þe wood a stranger built it,
And wiþ þe absence, to þe wood it returneþ.
Rightward, a forgotten fireplace, where a few logs still lay.
Leftward, a bed, and old books atop it, all long neglected.
And in þe middle, a circular table, wiþ dual stools aside,
And upon it, several scraps of writings left by þe unknown stranger:
“I’m finally alone.
No one to boðer me.
No one to comfort me.
I’m finally alone.”
“Everyþing was fine.
I þought you were mine.
I should have known it,
Þat it would not last.”
“Ne lada da li.
I know you hear me.
Na lada da shi.
I know you see me.”
“I could not stop it.
Come back to me, please.
Na da la da nit.
Ah di na da lease.”
Þou noticest oðer papers too,
Written in no script known to þee.
At first resembling language,
Þen seemeþ only scribbling,
But verily þey are
Raw expressions ov emotion,
Unfiltered by tongue.
As þou meditatest,
Now þe aura of þis cabin
Doþ come into focus:
A place ov secret sorrow.
A place hidden and hollow.
Uncover not its mysteries,
Or sadness shalt þou borrow…