He was not always ancien, Yoham!
One day he came upon a strange creature. It was Grande in shape and pink of couleur. Yet it was clad in the eternal gray of Livare! What was this magnificent creature? A being of many faces and many bodies. Almost abstract, as created in an artist’s studio.
Yoham observed the dancing creature. And it laughed at Yoham, for his hair had turned silver.
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 TruthWalk for Livare
Walk by the seashore
Walk through the fieldsSing for Livare
Sing for each fracture
Sing for that broken soul
Regions five
Received five visitsRegions divided
Regions collapsedKrim did not accept
The Land of Broken Slavs
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!
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!
The Wild. Who were you, Dalmatien?
Three false crowns
Two times three false lion tearsOh, yes, you have teeth
Oh, and fierce eyes, too
But you are not royalty
Not splendid
Nor divineWho were you, Dalmatien?
A rabid dog!
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!
The Worst. Who were you, Slawonien?
A poor fisherman
is he who has
poor harvestThe Sea itself rejects you,
Slawonien,
and your diet will forever be
awful offal,
watered ale!Who were you, Slawonien?
A beggarman!
Regions five
Were five-fold abandonedRegions in ruin
Regions of eternal rainKrim firmly rejected
The Land of Broken Slavs
Off the northwestern coast of ancient Pikkyia, beyond the forests of Finnish northlands and across the Dictum Borderlands, lies a bleak and barren isle. Once splendid and spiritual, now a wasteland of unholy prayer; once bountiful, a land of plenty, now only supporting the poorest of diets (of roots, of bark, of hollow vegetares). This is the island of Gurskaya and its Temple of the Arch-Angel Mykyle.
Fuj to my conquerors! Fuj!
In times past, the orthodox monks of Holy Ortodox Temple of Arch Angel Mykyle were the most prominent scholars of Jacobian philosophy and wisdom, in all the Tsardom and beyond. Their leader, Yoham Stariy, devoted his life to the studies of Krim and Logiks true, granting divine blessings and boons to their northern isle.
That would all change. A young and well educated priest called Jurii came to the temple, and with him a companion called Matteo. The monks welcomed their guests with traditional foods and drink, blessed upon the alter of Mykyle! Jurii ate, but Matteo did not.
Are you not hungry, friend Matteo? Yoham the Elder asked.
Yes, Matteo looked at his food and sighed. Then, as every sage and squire beheld him, he rose and pronounced his name was Nerich! It was clear to all, then, that un-logik had entered the most Holy Ortodox Temple. Yoham screamed, his hair turning to sparkling silver, his skin growing tight and brittle. He fell to the ground, too old ever to rise again.
The younger monks took to mournful song and prayer:
They may burn our land,
take our nourishment,
tear down our shelter.In vain I say!
Hollow, hollow!
Hallow, hallow!For our souls are forever blessed
Blessed!
by that Arch-Angel
Mykyle
But the Taxiarch Mykyle had betrayed them, for even that Arch-Angel had fallen to the wicked un-logik, to the Nerichian spell of Dark Matteo. To this day Gurskaya lays barren and abandoned …
Targu Mures Historical Society 