The Little Prince of the Mountains

Avram-Iancu
Avram Iancu

What words. What soul!

Yes, he was perhaps some deep Krim of the Mountain, our little prince.

What words! What Words! What Words!

I am high
in the grand aboves
in sister sky and brother sky-cloud
and all my siblings (seven by seven)
with fourty-nine fathers
and I

I am deep
in muddy depths
under aunt branch and uncle branch-root
and all my sons (nine by nine)
with eighty-one mothers
and I

I am true
on Krimean peaks
in all-father Krim’s magnificent gaze
and under his paternal care
with eternal knowledge unveiled
for me

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of Tulips and Birchwood

Valle Waling was wailing in agony as he awoke, his nightmares had tormented him yet again. Who was that olde Witchmaster in his mare-dreams?

Tulip fields and windmills near Rijnsburg by Claude Monet
Tulip fields and windmills

Valle lived his life among flowering tulips, calm canals and wonderful windmills. Yet his dreams of horror were set in another land entirely. A land of darkness, a land of frost and and deep deep forests.

In his dreams he once saw a mighty Birch-tree, it stood lonely on a frozen field. The skies were (…) There was something carved into the tree, he walked closer and he saw the name “Matteo”.

Suddenly day became night,
and the birch-tree was in flames!
He was approaching, yes,
the Witchmaster was there!

Valle awoke, wailing.

Winds blew, windmills turned and the tulips danced. But for Valle, every night was terror, and every day was waking agony. When would it be over? Sun would rise, summer would come, and again turn into autumn and winter. And the Witchmaster would torment him in his dreams.

Valle would walk aimlessly among the tulips, neither asleep nor awake. Days and nights were one, and he saw no other escape than death. Valle took his knife and opened his wrist. As his life emptied onto the ground, he felt the power of the Witchmaster diminish. His mind was clearer, he would soon be free! He laid down among the tulips, yes, it was finally over. As he closed his eyes, he saw the shadow of a figure standing above him. He opened his eyes one last time. The lands froze, it was Matteo the Witchmaster!

The Silver Tower on the shores of Totensee

Where the plains of the heathens meets waves of an inland see, lies a town. A town named for the son of Krim. Not Livare, the soulless, but His second son.

Majahi Hamare Majahi!

In the name of Yoham they built a tower of pure silver. There it stands tall on the shores, shining ever gray!

Hail that monk ancién!
He who danced with death!
Yoham!
You have grown old!

Ayem Ayem Ohm!

From the eastern wanderer Ville, wild and wailing, we have this song, which may well bring us to the silver tower and tragic monk:

Pray for Livare
Pray at Hamare
Pray at that Temple to Truth

Walk for Livare
Walk by the seashore
Walk through the fields

Sing for Livare
Sing for each fracture
Sing for that broken soul

The Paoloan Divan

That most curious piece of furniture! Such fine craftsmanship, and what curves!

Lay down here, young seeker
With so much yet to learn
Soon you will grow meeker
A new position earn

Yes, you find yourself in that House most highly acclaimed. Indeed, you stand in its innermost chamber! Lay down there, young seeker, upon that soft bosom standing splendid on four oaken feet.

Ayem, ohm, oh!
To be continuous!
To exist eternally!
To know the sixteen shades of
Phong, olde Master!

Vienna is a ghost, and you are Her murderer. How could you betray Her? And worse: How could you betray Him? You slumbered in his magnificent tower, upon that magnificent divan, as your days of youth expired in wild spiral motions, in Icarian fly-over.

Weep, Walle, cry
You know the Truth must die

Mourn, Walle, wailing
“Aye, ayem, oh, ohm …”

You live in memory. You breathe through time. You are still, as you are no more, and no more will be than you were (and you’re gone). But yes, you live! In that innermost chamber of the Holy House Helwegia, your imprint is deep and strong in the soft pillows and sweet textiles of the Paoloan Divan.

Historical Regions of Kroatien (Elegy)

Opening Hymn

Regions five
Received five visits

Regions divided
Regions collapsed

Krim did not accept
The Land of Broken Slavs

Regions Five

Alt-Kroatien

alt-kroatien
Moon and star! Like that of Moslem Mahomet?

The Old. Who were you, Alt-Kroatien?

Old! Old! More ancient, perhaps,
than old Yoham,
oldest of his kind!

Old bones grow
and new flesh suffers,
hair shines white and
splendid,
but you are dull
and feeble.

Who were you, Alt-Kroatien?
No friend!

Dubrovnik

the-whore.png
Spin in circles, wild and free

The Whore. Who were you, Dubrovnik?

Yes, sour city …

When Krim came to Kroatien poor
In times now so far gone
Did he visit
that old hag
Dubrovnik?

Who were you, Dubrovnik?
A cold embrace!

Dalmatien

dalmatien.png
A lion, three lions. Nothing compared to the mighty Bear!

The Wild. Who were you, Dalmatien?

Three false crowns
Two times three false lion tears

Oh, yes, you have teeth
Oh, and fierce eyes, too
But you are not royalty
Not splendid
Nor divine

Who were you, Dalmatien?
A rabid dog!

Istrien

istrien.jpg
Meek, humble, horned creature.

The Humble. Who were you, Istrien?

Such pride below
false humility!

There are no songs of your
accomplishments,
as you achieved nothing
and your children can
not hold a true tone truly.

Who were you, Istrien?
Sentimental and stubborn!

Slawonien

slawonien.png

The Worst. Who were you, Slawonien?

A poor fisherman
is he who has
poor harvest

The Sea itself rejects you,
Slawonien,
and your diet will forever be
awful offal,
watered ale!

Who were you, Slawonien?
A beggarman!

Closing Hymn

Regions five
Were five-fold abandoned

Regions in ruin
Regions of eternal rain

Krim firmly rejected
The Land of Broken Slavs

Sakhalin; a Survey

Introductions

These are the melancholy journalistics of a wandering Photografeur whose name is forgotten or otherwise lost. Let it be known: All lands are islands, disconnected and despairing. Let is also be known: All souls are lands of infinite darkness, save for the Light of Kirim.

Rejection

sakhalin_window.png
Red Krim, return! Have you forgotten us? He is surely a fool, he who still holds Krim close.

Remorse

sakhalin_slavs
Yes, but those were better days! Days of Spring and growth. It is our lot to suffer, for we are abandoned, child. Be not judgemental, for one day you, too, will abandon your dreams.

Rejoice!

sakhalin_sky
Arch-Angel Mykyle: Bless this land of Pikkyia! Bless this cursed soil! We are Children, you are olde – You are child-like, we are dead and dying. May the ocean carry us home! Arch-Angel Mykyle: Bless our vegetares, poor as they may be! Grant some salvation for these fields, these farms, this peninsular sadness …

 

The Golden Spires of El-Fahir

When the world was young, the Sister Kings of El-Fahir decreed the construction of seven golden spires: seven sister, seven spires. The Jealous Man heard their command, and in his pale pride decided to build for himself an eight spire at the very center of the city El-Fahir. As he stroked his long mustaches, brushed his thight beard, sent his slaves to the Gold mines, he sang in a whisper:

This spire, my desire
Will shine so tall and true

This spire, built higher
Will shame the sisters seven

This spire, my fire
Will grant my crown at last

Now it is but distant memory, and there is not one, nor seven, nor eight towers, but none. El-Fahir, fair kingdom, oasis among endless sands, has also joined with its unrelenting environs, those cruel, slow waves of hot dust. Was it you, Jealous Man, who doomed fair ‘Fahir? Or was it, as the Gambler and the Angels murmur and whisper and sing through tales, the spring-born Sister Kings who quarreled and warred from towers seven? Only the Snake knows the truth, but all his words are slithering lies.

Ah, who am I to say, who I am to judge? Those towers, that far and frightening City and its cruel, cruel prisons. It is Jealousy, only Jealousy …

Sorrows of Korbu and Far-Altaij

They went east to find their roots. Through forests, over steppes, across great floods and along narrow mountain paths and passes. Sami and Ville, friends and brothers, journeyed far, to Far-Altaij. They came in search of their roots, but what would they find? Could the grand tree of their heritage already be blackened, rotten? Or was it not such a wooden creation, but of a more floating and fleeting, yet grander, construction?

At a great lake, Ville turned left. But he was soon regretting his decision, and turned back, walking instead to the right, completely opposite to his original direction. Sami, never one for initiative or originality, followed behind. Ville strolled on for a few miles, along the lake, listening to songbirds and shamans in the breeze. It was then he came upon Korbu!

Your magnificence
Your blue, clean waters

Korbu, my Korbu
The greatest of Far-Altaij

You are as gold!

Yes, it was Korbu. The greatest and oldest waterfall along the lake, and in all of Far-Altaij, and, perhaps, the world. Ville was taken by its immenseness!

Sami, however, was not! And thus their friendship broke. Was he taken by the Nerichian logik? Had he fallen to logik untrue? These questions were there to be asked, but Ville cared not. He had Korbu, and only Korbu, on his mind!

They journeyed on, but no longer in friendship, nor brotherhood. And soon they took different paths, their lines through life diverging. Many days and nights passed, and then some more.

Korbu, immense
Bless its waters!

One day, Ville again stood by the falls of Korbu. Sami had long since returned west, returned home. Sami was weak. However, for Ville there was no longer a home there, in the narrow forest of the forgotten west, among the puny droplet-lakes of his birthplace. He had found his true home, along the much greater lake of Far-Altaij, where he would always hear the mighty roar of Korbu! He had found his roots and his destiny: the torrential stream rose above him, stronger than any oak.

Ville stood on the shore and waded into the waters. He felt the fresh coldness, and its immense immenseness. He let his body fall into the river, and it was taken over the falls. He and Korbu was now one.

Ville was quiet, Korbu triumphed on.

Jacob Krim – Migrations in the Americas. Part V

We return to the migrations, the second exodus and a new corner of the triangle (or now, polygon) of despair. 

Some years after Krim originally left the new world, he would return to a continent now much changed from what He first had known. The lands, once innocent, inhabited only by fertile beast and primitive man, were now infected by the very same illness as Old Evropa. Yes! That disease of bourgeois civilates! It had indeed reached this new world, this young land. Were she as hopelessly infected as kontinent ancìen?

civilates

In the newly formed cities and towns, peoples of many letters would wander aimlessly in poverty and despair. Their eyes filled with the sorrow of failed promises and lost hope. These lands where once filled with dreams: dreams long gone.

Smoke rises only from factories and burning woods.
No longer from native campfires many..

Un-religion is now spoken in churches and on the street.
Where did you go, blessed innocence?

– Jacob K.

He decided to journey south, back to the town where he first settled. But in Jocotepec the first school was in ashes, its ruins the only remnant of its greatness…

And He knew!

He knew that the world could no longer be divided into Old and New. For when un-logik and tragedie know no borders, then neither can He.

Ingo Schweitzer, the possessive Prussian (the lost chapters)

Several chapters of The Armed Forces are lost, the last known copy destroyed in some great, hellish fire. What remains of the text is presented here.
"The Armed Forces" by Jan C. Zločin. 
Ostuda Press, Brünn, 1942.
Now in the public domain.
These excerpts translated from the German by the Targu Mures Historical Society.

Circle of the Ingaevones

Suum cuique

From the 3rd chapter

The foul creature opened his eyes. They beamed, and his face and entire appearance at once grew milder and light. Then his mouth opened, and his lips and his tongue rolled like golden rivers: “Ingo, we are brethren! Not by the same mother, no, yet our father is the same. Yes, our Heavenly Father is father of all man, but listen well dear brother! Your earthly father is my father also, for his name is Josef Becher, and from him you have that bold and strong spirit!”

Was it true? Was he no Prussian after all? Doubt fell upon Ingo like a shadow or a cold claw. His life, then, was a lie and a farce, his very flesh a perversion. It was no wonder then, that he found no home in the North. He was but a snake, and a liar.

As he withdrew the knife, the creature breathed no more. Ingo delivered his prayer: “And may your filthy, Slavic blood flow through these streets like the great Donau, and may it pool in some southern sea, so far away from my land and my people.”

From the 5th chapter

Oh Iselin, my love! In my childhood years, as I first looked upon you, I was struck with … With some feeling … A feeling I could (and can) not understand. Oh, Iselin of Ostsee, will I ever see you again? Shall we again segelglide upon that furious, yet calm See? I smile at you as from distant memory, and you reveal your milky maiden’s secrets and secretions … Those days are no more, fallen along with my virtue, forever locked in my closet at that foul Barracks for the sexually deviant.

From the 6th chapter

Ancient rituals of old Prussia
General, General!

From a chapter unnamed

Dear all who I have failed, abandoned or otherwise lost: Here is my Song to Sudovia.

Grey sea spirit!

Rise above the rising wave
Sail away without a sail
Sing your voiceless elegy
And mourn those not yet lost

Grey sea spirit!

Were I not Ingo Schweitzer
If I were someone else
I’d join you, grey sea spirit
And free my inner self

Grey sea spirit,
great Ostsee,
all Oceans grande!
To feel your violence,
your salt and haze,
to see my home again!

Oh, to pass away
in your cold embrace,
in any other way …
Not in this cruel, black puddle