A SOUL WHICH ENDURES
by Archaic Scribe
Of Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits. A soul which endures out of time and mind.
A union of theology and tradition for All Hallows Eve.
A drabble melding Yavanna with, or as a representation of, Mother Earth and the Legend of Mary Magdalene in the spirit of nature and pagan worship along with the myths associated with the modern perception and practices associated with Halloween.
Twisted, gnarled crabapple tree. Alone among a colony of quaking aspen, a darkness of glistening brown at the center of white. A strong wind forces pointed, skeletal branches to sway violently as dreary gray clouds pass overhead, the cusp of night overtaking earth and sky.
The cry on air is a soft, seductive whisper in an ancient ritual to honor the dead who have been called to an untimely death which was not preordained by higher powers.
It is All Hallows Eve.
A night of mystery and magic that wills to strike fear in to he hearts of the ignorant masses who now walk Mother Earth's sacred paths. Disrespectful and rebellious, these propagators of false faith will be rebuked and someday crushed as enemies by the goddess of all things living.
A symbol of man, dark, surrounded by the white gossamer of women, the Holy Elite of Fertility, a cluster of feminine stemming from a single root buried below fertile soil.
The roots of female and male intertwine, intimately twisted and hidden from the judgement of mortal eyes.
Call out, blind mortal perception, for truth long hidden by the devious device of men.
Hearken to the nurturing voice of the Giver of Fruits and pour your soul into weariless prayer as smoky gray clouds race away to reveal only the sparkling brilliance of twinkling light that dots the sky.
All power lies in birth, of bringing a breathing life to this world for purposes that mortals could never ascertain. Only divine plan can hold such mastery.
Destiny of the goddess who walks among you still, shrouded in mystery and faint wisps of fog and shadow, fleeting glances lend a telltale beacon to mortals worthy.
Folly, the Fate, born only from the actions of men.
Live your life with kindness and respect for all things living and give life in all forms reverence or your soul shall wither, forfeit, like the chill breath of autumn's arrival upon the warm breeze of the summer solstice.
Disclaimer:
Characters and situations of The Silmarillion (Second Edition) by J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien are the property of The J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust and Christopher Reuel Tolkien.
Produced solely for the enjoyment of other fans and not for any monetary profit. Please do not sue me, as I have little money.