We’re spaceward bound tomorrow But there’s no grief or sorrow Alone in the sky. The moon’s riding high. You ripe ears of barley, goodbye.
Victor Pelevin, trans. Andrew Bromfield, Omon Ra [Amazon, Bookshop, Publisher, Local Library]
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Come with flute and come with pipe!
Am I not ripe?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion and sharp as an asp —
Come, O come!
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
Aleister Crowley, Hymn to Pan (in Book 4; see also Hino a Pã)
