THE NEW TIME

It is most certainly not a hidden secret, or for many anything that can be forgotten that the Worlds and the Gods exist. This is the most repeated, and at the same time the clearest answer our world’s history has to take care of and offer our lives. The only Knowledge that always gets claimed impossible to get affirmed is left for humanity more clearly than anything to see. The most likely and the only really valuable for us all is true.

The New Time that soon will emerge, or rather re-emerge, is one in the line of the Gods’ reincarnations that like a law and rule again will continue shape our world. This time, this must be mentioned, this has been much harder to manifest as the earlier reincarnations of “The Seven Gods” failed to show about four hundred years ago. Anyone who would search for the Knowledge will clearly come to see simultaneous changes that have occurred during thousands of years back inside the people and our Culture in all parts of this world. These mildly put revolutionizing occurrences left traces no one can continue to ignore or cover over with any kind of manipulations.

The Knowledge and the traditions real functions and use will be brought in to a new reminder. With this follows the re-established, improved and repeated renewal of this world. The forming of the high cultures and the correcting recovery of the Knowledge, or sanity if you so wish, are undeniably essential need to humanity as the only possible way back to a healthy honour and dignity in life. The consciousness about the Gods’ existence is also the only self-defence for humanity’s survival. (As always these very simple and clear facts will be fought against in all conceivable ways in the War.)

Ignorance is a deadly weapon and the strongest inner foe, which already done what should be completely unthinkable in all countries; inside our owned societies. The War of all Wars works itself in the open and hidden with certain people, or beings if you wish it mentioned like that, who are mostly unknowing tools where the little parts of Truth they do know of is close to nothing of worth for these; the foes’ shaped and used scum, seeing as this would comprise the fact that they are nothing and lack all rights in our world. We are all forced and involved partakers in the War of all Wars, which to sum it up is about the Might over our shared existence: Our life or our death.

This world now looks mostly like something made to snare anyone that searches after Knowledge and freedom, but this is an illusion aimed at the poor in Knowledge and that state will soon be a bleak memory. The possibilities with using presages in order to prematurely arrange after constructions are being used to the maximal and have shown themselves to be a weapon of unparalleled strength. Undoubtedly has Viet suffered severe defeats long enough, but we now have the greatest gain of truthful; real and working presages until Ragnarok. We must all hold our lives awake inside the Knowledge about the Gods and the War, as there is no choice to be made.

Beyond our Gods that can protect us there is only filth, dumbness, suffering and a final death.

THE NEW TIME

AS AXE BLOW

Here is a stone-hill filled with taken away stones.

 

There is a leaning larder collecting in what is already eaten.

 

(All still as ardent as a forgotten memory of a light burned out.)

 

 

The surpassed present time is without real answers

and sowing here without harvest in a curious connection

 

Viet knows what Honour causes, while here now life;

last and finally is mostly for ill hidden purposes grief

 

IN WITH THE UNREACHABLE TO GRAB!

TAKE THE FINAL STEP!

 

Be a solidity with the striking-weapon; Clarity and Right,

and fill up the patience, break here down suffering!

 

BE THE WORLD A WITHSTANDING DELIGHT!

NOW LIVE YOURSELF FULL!

 

 

It begins.

 

Enter to the present time with something monumental:

 

TRUTH.

AS AXE BLOW

THE HILLSIDE SMITH SECRET

Sleeplessly resting in a fragile hint,

so alike a water circle offers shallowness;

sighted shortly and withheld; so moving

 

 

Tracing then the water in the forest-creek down to the river.

 

Waiting here. Observing with a careful watchfulness.

 

Counting everything musingly and cultivating my freedom.

 

 

Honour is never anything other than right; wise and truthful,

unthinkable to therein search after any hidden motives.

 

 

Sleeping safely next to the hillside smith at summer-dawn.

 

Relief comes when Life again will be enough.

 

Letting fastidious be me reasonable and healthy.

 

 

Opportunities, the now’s possibilities avoided me steadily

and persistently bitterness bites memories sown,

cock-sure and clearly; in benefit for worthlessness

 

 

But, I have a prevalent advantage in clearest excess;

 

I am foresighted on the Holy Path Home to Valhalla.

THE HILLSIDE SMITH SECRET

HANGED UPON WISHED FOR BRANCH

Heaving up the trashed and torn roots

right here next to the old gallows pole hill

 

 

 

Dig inside my soil.

 

 

 

Every glance is taken like a last solidified picture;

 

Released with the dew-drops in a morning haze.

 

Autumn’s shrouded leaves flicker.

 

 

 

(Daylight in its rising counts itself as old annual rings

finding me in the uncertain emptied; filled with real need.)

 

 

 

Time continues

 

 

 

To willful use for the eye

meets the entrance by the edge of the woods

where soaking wet leave mounds glimmer

 

from the same dawn to dawn enclosed

 

in the greyed trees, the bluish skies

watched and awaited; Time continues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Juniper bushes, which stood on the slopes

treads on the longed for forest grounds

up the duskily pine-needle filled paths.)

 

 

 

Feel the presence.

 

 

 

Harshly appears the cold ways

denying cloud covered days,

which felted all my time here.

 

 

 

The wind hisses bodefully.

 

 

 

 

(Out-witted as an autumn-adorned branch

taken down with the now icing night-wind.)

 

 

 

 

 

Hear me clearly; Time continues.

HANGED UPON WISHED FOR BRANCH

WHERE STONE SHARDS STAND

Choice is stone on flowers

or flowers on stone

 

YOU THERE! Follow me here and step on meandering ant-tracks

continuing down through the meadowland; in just this spring

which now remade by the meltwater runs over into…

 

Summer, went past reflecting other little summer memories

up here on juniper tree hills and field islands; down by the creeks

we turn our embraces around full-grown wild strawberry ditches

 

 

The water-mirror slumbered stuck further down in the old hollow

with its pine-needles and dust swimming on after― So prettily teasing

 

We will see invisibly lifted stone shards there behind the glade

by saddened hardened in each corner ― Yet they’re playing

 

 

The views are here allowed to be us stretched far and wide,

reachable, for us hastily taken in right before…

 

Autumn, a scent around blot wood and mushrooms in damp moss

from a silent hiding-place where one single leaf has hanged itself on;

following true life-gladness in search after worth seeing; stainless.

 

 

It died down meanwhile the river silenced below the ridge

and beside me sat a frosted fog denseness in a smile;

in its cold and snowfilled winterarms winterfairest shine

 

 

We return home inside the soll!

 

We strike forward our years on mountains!

 

We break Earth’s veins!

WHERE STONE SHARDS STAND

AFORE BEAUTY DIES

Where fallow stayed accessible for years

gleaming in its coldest nightstones; calling

inside the forests snow-covered darkness

as night grew all its frost ready; to cling

 

Watching the remains sunken down in blood.

 

(My intensive double eyes

telling about my earlier lives,

remember now my clearest traces.)

 

 

Following my longings impossible demands,

 

That,

 

which never at any time will caress;

cutting a heart that thought too hard; My grave.

 

 

And all my beauty is now dead, as yours,

which in all of you so wrench and aggrieve

 

 

Missing me. My longing is cured.

FINDING. AM. BRED.

I am the new essence matured.

 

 

Extinguishing all my wounds suffering,

and awake, afore beauty dies, once more.

SPRING FLOWERS 1

IN A TIMELESS

Wide awake.

 

Taking over dawning,

kicking around down in the sand ―

sighting a grey-barn stand among summers ruins

 

Stepping up to the ledge of a still asleep stone bridge

when a grey wagtail flee away with a quenched cry

almost unheard in our consent of silent wind-throws

 

(It hurts to be so greatly charged with suspicion.)

 

 

It cuts hard into my insight.

 

Sad to say, I am an all too easily harmed, an turned inside irascible

that been lured to train myself balanced, to hurt myself galled,

be a vulnerable and at the same time avoid hardest pain

 

(Being all wounds intact and lulling my fairest dream again)

 

Have ragged myself to come down to the others alikeness;

to obstinately be on exception as an unknown curiosity

But… One thing will lead to the last ― In to an unsolvable

 

(Remained left in a late set autumn, in a capricious ― In a timeless)

 

 

Finally my anguish cuts me done.

 

It is late.

 

Care not to carve in overripe wood more now.

 

 

 

Wide awake.

IN A TIMELESS