The killer [sandcan djinn infected] awoke before dawn
He put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery [sandcan djinns]
And he walked on down the hall
He went into the room where his sister lived, and then he
Paid a visit to his brother, and then he
He walked on down the hall, and
And he came to a door
And he looked inside
“Father?” “Yes, son?” “I want to kill you”
“Mother? I want to [Fuck You!]”
~excerpt lyrics The End by The Doors with annotation
The Warrior-Poet Ethos of The European Poet was defiled and decimated with the introduction of abrahamism, yea, even the definition has been perverted.
God Týr, Victory and Justice, Poetry they fear!
Your Warrior-Poets ne’er donned masks from The Ancient Gallery, for this is done by those that serve the sandcan djinn dark master(s). No, we are told in lore from days of old, by our sacred ancestors, it is Our Ancient Names we are to wear.
Killers, they kill indiscriminately with blades (poetry) forged by others, with the names of others inscribed upon them, yet your warriors wield blades (poetry) they have forged themselves, with their ancient names inscribed upon them, honour our Gods and Goddesses, honour our sacred ancestors.
Gone are the sacred rituals, those that impart your warriors spirits to their blades (poetry). Chronology and technology have replaced the rites of passage tests.
No longer is the candidate for Warrior-Poet Class to discover his ancient name, with great thought, carefully, methodically inscribe his blade (poetry) come to understand its meaning to himself and his Folk!
Lasered pre-sharpened blades (poetry), your warriors lose the ritual of sharpening his blade (poetry) upon a stone to a fine razors edge. The long slow pulls across the stone or the long slow push of the stone along his blade (poetry), with each pull or push, your warriors became one with their blades (poetry), the Warrior-Poet’s Ethos instilled through mind and spirit.
No more does your Warrior-Poet stand to fight his wars for family and folk, no, for the Warrior-Poet Ethos of you Týr they do not possess. Merely killers at foreigners behest, at best. Oh hear my lament, God Týr, your Warrior-Poet Ethos, Victory, Justice upon Our Lands, upon Our Folk does not exist, for your lands are flooded with brutal killers of Family and Folk, ne’er met with the test.
What are we to call it when the tips of our blades (poetry) are thrust in the ground, placed at rest? christian Capitulation? christian Submission? Ah yes, these are terms that describe the mind virus best for in these Your Warrior-Poet Ethos can, will never exist.
The blade (poetry) of The Folk Warrior-Poet killed by abrahamism-social democracy at its best.