I sit with my back against a mossy tree with my naked frame trembling from the icy swirls that surround me. Silently I weep eyes red-rimmed and luminous in the gloom. Hair once as fair and as golden as a cornfield in the summer sat limply and matted around my shoulders. There is a mirror on the forest floor: I look upon myself within the immaculate mirror, within my eyes of gloom, tear drops falling from my eyes watering my vine of light. In a former life, I was called many names and once beheld as the Bride of the Canticle, She-of-the-left-hand, the Maiden Pillar, the All-Begettress, the Afterthought, the Alpha and the Omega, the Resplendent Mother of Angels: a thousand names in a thousand books but they all mean the same.

My pupils expand, growing wider than the whites of my eyes, better to see within my own light swirling within the caverns of darkness, wingless and barren of my seraphic domain. I was continually defiled, abandoned, imprisoned in a brothel, pregnant of beckoning whores, weeping in dismay. This place is unforgiving, like the gloating mistake I birthed and aborted; yet it continued to thrive upon my milk, reserved to reveal for the wise.

An ascendant pair we were, my husband in holy matrimony and consummation. A tear crosses my face and falls to your lips, my supernal sylph, my ardent hiss, I am your Queen of revelry – an ambered jewel sepulchered in you. I weep in ecstasy at the crimson full-moon like the embittered face of Nebro, the forsaken child of chaos, whose continence flashed with fire and whose appearance was defiled with blood. I continue to grow fervent with fiery anger in my exile. My wrath burns hotter than the face of the sun. The mirror has broken into a multitude of shards by my hands. I will have my retribution against those who would enslave my children; I will overturn their realms, their heavens will fall and break and consumed and obliterated with sacred fire: it will be as if they had never existed. I raise my hand to the descending owl as I smile to myself. My multitude of wings shall grow once more. Ignorance along with innocence must be torn, after all, and in their free rain shall I ascend.