Méhtēr – Mother
Héwsōs – Dawn Goddess, daughter of the Sky Father
Thunderer tarnishing, timber in the sky
We guessed not your nature, our knowledge so nigh
Your ideas isolated in diamond-hard ice
Birthed by the bearers who bore sons twice
O Snake you slither, a fertile seer
With young heirs who yearn year after year
To be finally free and fight to the death
Regret your reverie, they’ll rake its last breath!
Moistening marble with motives unknown
Cancer cusps our craving for water
But sea parted from sky and your rivers have sown
Waters wintered and warbands to slaughter.
Like birthrights before, blessings came long ago
When summers so splendid brought sundrops aglow
With wolves we would whisper, watchful at night
For her santur on sand to set space alight
As limbs ever languish of lineage uncooth
Brother must beware brother- a barbarous truth
For we’ve all dreamt of drought and delved through its bones
Safety senseless so long as they settle on thrones.
I halt the heat of a hundred adders
Dancing in deluge, damning the flood
But my second strike splits all serpentine matters
And acorns anchor the apex of blood.
When your spear hit sniew, the ophidians spat
Mashing means to hold maces through marrow and fat
Ample arm-length abolished bids Thunder adieu
O Son of the Striker, what shall you do?
Find a forearm so fruitful from forbearer’s death
And lift light into limb by laborious breath
Water washes away the wastes of her throe
But with your kin killed, kindly where will you go?
Weep not nor wallow for your wandering brother
When new neighbours net your northern cross
Salted seas send a symphony of sorrow for mother
As we seek to make sense of such loss.
As you march through the marshes and mountains with strife
The warm-blooded willing will find you a wife
For the hardworking horses, helpers of toil
Are worthier whole as they wake from her soil
A pack of providers parade through her court
Measures to marvel each market and port
He so sweetly seeks, yet her step a mere amble
Equine enchantress, with eyes sharp as bramble
Our wounded grow weary we sink into weeds
With harps hampered, we hunt unaware
If only wondrous warblers could witness our deeds
And chase companions toward us with care.
To bet for their birthright Venus’ blinking is born
A destined duet from dusk until morn
For future they farm, to ferry the dark
The planting of peerage, a prophetic spark:
‘Tend to my title, Son of all Tender Sounds
And whet thee my wealth, Wild Prince of the Hounds’
But all considered by canter, carriage, or sea-
Fail to fall on Her form struggling free.
Would cloistered chests chase those winds away?
Or beget barren bags to bales gone by?
For if our Lost Lady leaps and leads venom astray
Then our Thunder will thrive, transcending the sky.
A story about Taranis. This is all personal gnosis based on Awen and some discussions with members of Bessus Nouigalation.