03/19/17 - Prologue of the Unborn
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Into my loneliness comes —
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The sound of a flute in dim groves that haunt the uttermost hills.
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Even from the brave river they reach to the edge of the wilderness.
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And I behold Pan.
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The snows are eternal above, above —
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And their perfume smokes upward into the nostrils of the stars.
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But what have I to do with these?
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To me only the distant flute, the abiding vision of Pan.
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On all sides Pan to the eye, to the ear;
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The perfume of Pan pervading, the taste of him utterly filling my mouth, so that the tongue breaks forth into a weird and monstrous speech.
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The embrace of him intense on every centre of pain and pleasure.
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The sixth interior sense aflame with the inmost self of Him,
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Myself flung down the precipice of being
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Even to the abyss, annihilation.
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An end to loneliness, as to all.
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Pan! Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan!
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Thank you for doing this Danica.
