The Final Days of Jakko Krimälainen

In his final days, Jakko Krimälainen lived more in the world of Visions than that of the Common Earth, spoke more of Truths Eternal than of Lies Naturelle, cared more for Eternity than for Mortality.

His diary was indeed recovered, including a sparse outline of these desperate end times, but lore whispers wider and softer tales of his Melankolia & Remorese, his Demise & Salvation. They are faint rings in Lappish lakes, echoes in dark-green treetops, dissipating foam on cold barley drinks, but they are true, and they are heard:

In the final days of Autumn
When the first snows have fallen
When the shallow lake has frozen
When the younger birds have flown
I will pass, I will pass

Despite my dear companions
Who scatter through the canopies
Who break on through the thicket
Who listen in the azure deep
I move on, I move on

I see so much and so much clearer
The knowledge and the power
The ever-untrue, true-false logiks
The cursed combinatoriks
So I splinter, so I splinter

And the Eyes of He who watches
Those of starlight & dark myst’ry
Those of silver starlight shining
Those of weariness and starlight
Are like glass, are like glass

In the final days of Autumn
When the first snows have fallen
When the shallow lake has frozen
When the younger birds have flown
I will pass, I will pass

Yes, in my Autumn’s final days
When I lock my wooden door
When I close the leaded windows
When the thatched roof-top aches
All will pass, all will pass

 

Advertisements

Remorese and Melankolia

Nikeli
Long live the strange white / Foreign on naked isle, once whole

Norilsk and Nikel, abandoned by God, embraced by Kirim. Vomit smoke and sulfur, drink narcotic sludge. Where have you gone, Angel Mykyle, Pikkiya’s saviour of old? Oh, oh …

In Remorese, deepest sorrow sing
Have a seat and dip your head low
And never will you return to the surface
Let this barstool be your resting place

It was there the Krim of Old died, there the Krim of New was born. So, too, was I reborn in the deep blackness and coal-dark mines that are the eateries & pleasure-houses of these abandoned, yet blessed places.

Melankolia, soot on the soul
Poor is the meal of
The toothless soup-man
& the bird in flight

nikelio
As bright as her light had flashed, it was now snuffed to darkness / and in Jakko grew also a tumor of cold, black realisation