Engraved here upon firestone hauled from the cliffs of Preseli Hills are secrets of the underworld:-
Within the act of carving irrepressible words at the base of unshakable sandstone, we dispose of our burdens, brought about through the selfish art of penning. Through the creation of this sacred tablet, our ancestors are hereby released from the curse of collective consciousness. Truth has set us free from the burdens of textual matter.
This is our confession. Woe to those who turn over this slate, stumbling upon the secrets trapped within this text, interpreting in ignorance, words hidden for generations from the light. Buried within the pores of quartz, within these chiseled indentations, rests the fate of many tongues.
The buried words of this monolith serve as unread testimony to the magnificence of all that was and what is to be written. This spell of knowledge is hidden for eternity, placed under stone, the surface upon which it originated
Beneath this tower, the secret of the written word is protected. In the beginning there was the word and in the end, all will be read. With this stone erect, there is no end. Shake it down, and be cast from paradise—
Marked in the light, the written world is read by those in the underworld, reminding the deceased of the principles of life. Literature is all that the dead comprehend and see in the light. So much reading in all of eternity.
The great circle of stones will protect this truth. This inscription and these secrets were designed to remain face-down, embedded within the cold Earth, readable only by those trapped in the afterlife. Spirit eyes learn to listen to poetry as ears turn to music. This inverted tablet and the words engraved here will never perish, for these rhythmic lines are crafted to be read only in the light.
Eyes of the breathing– those with spoken tongues, remain blind to the lines of death. The majesty of these stone towers will never tumble, and here, beneath this ashlar, our secrets remains written but, unread. The silent prayer of eternity is the written word. Surely man will never again harness the jewels of the heavens and preserve time in word, marking the truth of life as it passes, preserving fact, leaving behind only original sin, only to be consumed as prose by unsuspecting minds. Those comprehending this inscription take on the fear of our past.
For generations, our Celtic ancestors preserved an ancient tradition of harvesting pure stones from the banks of Whales. They dragged chiseled portions of hardened Earth from the furthest places of the middle-world to place in this garden. These were stone seeds, carried by giant men. They moved their temples at the pace of the vast darkness which connects the tears that fill the night sky. With the gift of the word, learned by their red markings, men became small.
Lifetimes passed, generations served and our monuments moved only within the area of each generation. Slowly these slates were pulled by our people and only after many lifetimes, the rocks found this peaceful resting place. The secrets written here at the base of this harvested cliff, are known only by those who moved these great stones– a people who spoke man’s native tongue and now, through reading, live again. New seeds of each generation planted the pillars of this endless story. Our children will carry these mountain stones for generations that follow until new eyes of a strange people steal from us as we have the gods.
This was our curse.
When the secret of the word is discovered by foreigners, no longer are we held in chains by those who live in the bright stars and move as wolves– the small men with large eyes who govern the heavens. They left behind a way out, just as the truth that they revealed to the Celts was a way out of the light for them, this secret is shared with our neighbors.
Our downfall was caused by the act of bloodletting upon these sandstone alters. We sacrificed many bloodlines upon these porous rocks in honor and worship of the small men who came from the sky.
Our blood has turned this green stone purple.
Blood pierced from the ears of women was rubbed upon this sacred alter at the beginning, when the sun was at its weakest. Faint words of the dead mumbled within the great rock as our women bled and listened here. Men of age with sharpened flint stones cut fore-skin and joined the women– opening themselves to spirits of the ancestors, shedding precious blood upon this rock in an act of loyalty to those who have passed on and live as wolves in the sky.
This is the only way for them to return– through shed blood.
This stone and these words are the light for those in the underworld. They follow prose when returning to life– the bloodletting brings them here and signs such as this give them hope.
The gods of the afterlife feast upon the blood of man and never drink of beasts. It was here, upon this great stone, where we made our annual sacrifices of blood from our children and learned of the burden of eternal life.
Root vegetables were carved and light was placed within the gourds on the eve of an annual celebration of the sun– a lesson for our children who shed blood each year and learned to understand that there is pain associated with eternal life.
They became men of the word and were taught that great pain comes with new life and new tongues. Our ancestors found redemption through our ceremonies and we bled here, as written words, upon this stone.
Root vegetables were carved upon this granite and the pumpkins were lit during Samhuinn as a reminder of the burning pain of the loins– these acts guided to Earth spirits of the dead who burn for new life through the valves of children.
The gods blessed man for our sacrifices and taught us to understand the power of written word—the crimson markings of offspring helped us to understand our path, as each year, the story of the sacred word was sealed with blood and re-written.
We were perfected upon this stone.
This tabernacle led to the way of the unspoken mind. It was with this new light that we guided our ancestors out of darkness, but we continued to grow small with each passing incarnation.
Never again will we shed our blood and let the dead return through our children, for now it is written and in the light, thus the written word was made law.
Woe to those who fail to understand the beauty of death. The tongue of the word must remain sealed until the end, when all there remains is the word, the markings of man and the light of the word.
Seal up these words now, shed this truth as was done upon this interpretation, and continue in the tradition of carving the fruit of loins as was taught by the rulers of the heavens.
Hide this text and burry these secrets deep again. Live life in paradise and avoid the burden of the word. This malediction is eternal until new blood is shed in the manner of our Celtic brotherhood.
This condemnation, as with the word, is released only when innocent blood is shed in tradition– when the secret of the written word and the path to new life is revealed to innocent eyes of a strange tongue.
As new blood flows from innocent youth and a strange people thirst for knowledge, the secret is released and life remains eternal. A path for our ancestors has been carved again as this knowledge burns in the light.
Our children are pure in the word.
Only when the light of life is kindled again will we continue to pass from the light, back to the mid-realm, until eventually, the word is known by all.
Even now, they have returned to live in what is yours, the reader.
Take on a new language and unmask in the words of this rock as was done through your discovery of this text. Lift this curse that is now within the blood that flows in you.
Write until you bleed– for this is the nature of the true word and the curse of Stonehenge.