Yan-Olaf, the eternal student (of Krim)

Of Krim there is always more to know, the knowledge goes ever deeper. In eternity!

As a young man Yan-Olaf Montanius had a dream, a dream of unlimited knowledge and wisdom. When he came of age, he took to studies at universities. His ambitions were great, but he soon felt at loss. Un-logik came over him, and he failed all three courses his first semester.

He tried again once, twice and thrice. But never would he produce proper results. His ambitions of knowledge and wisdom dwindled, and he left the university. In the next years he took what employment he could find. He worked as a shepherd in the mountains and as a shopkeeper’s assistant. Then, at one point joined a struggling group of travelling musicians.

Yan-Olaf soon became a figure of leadership for the group and was soon known as Yan Olaf the Wise. The group played in streets and town squares to the enjoyment of many.  The gang toured Europa and the Empire of Osman for many years.

While on the Osman island of Crete, Yan Olaf met a Semitic man in rags. And they conversed … A Darchness fell over Yan, it was warm and heavy.

I met the Arab. He had no grammar, no order, no sistem.

In the chaotic appearance of the ragged Arab, Yan Olaf saw also himself. He felt regret & remorese so strongly. Why had he strayed from the path of Knowledge? His ambitions returned, and he began his studies anew. And as far as one knows, Yan-Olaf is still a student, in eternity!

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Peer, the Civil

Peer, Peer, you are too civil!

The very first Song I ever heard was Krimalainen’s lament upon Livare. And such a Song it was (of sorrow, of Korbu, of sorrow-joy)!

Oh, Majahi, struck by thunder and thunderous applause, you are eternally eternal and actually actual. Oh, Ville, mourn those windows of broken love…

Oh, ohm… Peer! Rest in Srpska…

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

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.