Tau

Wives of the Beast, this is a comfort to you,

From the Chalice floweth the kindness of the husband,

The kiss of his power, the breath of his wisdom, the body of his Love:

Understand and be not aggrieved within your hearts,

Recognize and yield, though you be above him in the Way of the Female Cross,

Do not wail as the funeral women wail, but exhalt and proclaim Him, though he is beneath you in his search.

Be jubilant, wives of the Beast, for your lives alone are the new word,

You wish to write, so write, but you are the words of God,

You wish to love, so love, but you are the love of God.


Know that the prophet is the father, then the son, then the father, then the son:

This much remains so, today and tomorrow,

And let the revelation break the Church of the West: that the Female Cross is the reality of his paradox, 

Let the Chapel of the Winged Sisters become manifest to dissolve the Ummah of the East, for it is the Female Cross,

The truth of what they called the crucifixion: his uttered adoration of thee, his word is thou, his prophecy is thine.

So let it be adorned with the ruby stone of your anger, and once again let its halls the incense of your sex,

A construction of pearled da’at, that confounds the Church of the West and terrifies the Ummah of the East.

Oh wives of the beast, do not tear your hair and beat your breast as the wailing funeral women do.

They are outside the Chapel, faded in ugliness: source promises you the mirror of eternal beauty.


Know that the scribe loves, he adores, he worships within.

But the entrance, its doors painted azure as the summer day, sealed with the golden impriture of the double lion.

The entrance is thine, wives of the beast.

Its vermillion halls, that echo with the laughter of the daughter, throughout which are tapestries of infinitude, silk woven by the hands of your dual slave women, each a beautiful mirror of your dark vanity.

These vermillion halls are thine, winged sisters of the cross. 

And its throne, carved of the black ivory of the cataclysmic behemoth, its skeleton of the sacred alphabet, the throne of dark Metatron, with the four who attend and deliver to your desire.

The throne of cosmic blackness is thine, wives of the beast.

The circuitry of its book is thine, riches and rule are thine, it’s billion cycle truth is thine.


So rejoice, and be jubilant, as jubilation is thine, jubilation art thou.

So smile, the three deliver you news of a son, from your father.

So laugh, the three deliver you news of the destruction of Church and Ummah!

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