ΚΕΦΑΛΗ ΜΔ The Mass of the Phœnix in Liber CCCXXXIII, The Book of Lies by Aleister Crowley.
“Now I begin to pray: Thou Child,
holy Thy name and undefiled!
Thy reign is come: Thy will is done.
Here is the Bread; here is the Blood.
Bring me through midnight to the Sun!
Save me from Evil and from Good!
That Thy one crown of all the Ten.
Even now and here be mine. AMEN.” [via]
Synthesis in The Gate of the Sanctuary from The Temple of the Holy Ghost (Collected Works, Vol I) by Aleister Crowley.
“I love you now again with an undivided song.
Because I can never love you, I cannot do you wrong.
I saw in your dying embraces the birth of a new embrace;
In the tears of your pitiful faces, another Holier Face.
Unknowing it, undesiring, your lips have led me higher;
You have taught me purer songs that your souls did not desire;
You have led me through your chambers, where the secret bolt was drawn,
To the chambers of the Highest and the secrets of the Dawn!
You have brought me to command you, and not to be denied;
You have taught me in perfection to be unsatisfied;
You have taught me midnight vigils, when you smiled in amorous sleep;
You have even taught a man the woman’s way to weep.” [via]
Synthesis in The Gate of the Sanctuary from The Temple of the Holy Ghost (Collected Works, Vol I) by Aleister Crowley.
“Then I perceived the stars to reflect a single sun—
Not burning suns themselves, in furious regular race,
But mirrors of midnight, lit to remind us of His face.
Thus I beheld the truth: ye are stars that give me light;
But I read you aright and learn I am walking in the night.
Then I turned mine eyes away to the Light that is above you:
The answering splendid Dawn arose, and I did not love you.
I saw the breaking light, and the clouds fled far away:
I was the resurrection of the Golden Star of Day.
And now I live in Him; my heart may trace the years
In drops of virginal blood and springs of virginal tears.” [via]
Synthesis in The Gate of the Sanctuary from The Temple of the Holy Ghost (Collected Works, Vol I) by Aleister Crowley.
“It is ill to blaspheme the silence with a wicked whispered thought—
How still they were, those nights! when this web of things was wrought!
How still, how terrible! O my dolorous tender brides,
As I lay and dreamt in the dark by your shameful beautiful sides!
And now you are mine no more, I know; but I cannot bear
The curse—that another is drunk on the life that stirs your hair:
Every hair was alive with a spark of midnight’s delicate flame,
Or a glow of the nether fire, or an old illustrious shame.” [via]