Monday, November 26, 2007

ALLFATHER WOTAN by Donald V. Clerkin

Children of mine, fair and beautiful kin of the light, you know me. I am known to you as the Wanderer, the Wolf, Lord of the Ravens. My home is the primeval forest, the place of the mighty ash and oak. You know me there when you, my children, were new-born to the world. There you aided me in my wars against the racial aliens, the lords of the underworld and darkness, who used their gold and their lusts to corrupt you into their snares. When you lived in the old forests with me we were always victorious against our enemies.
But you have forgotten my counsel and your race of light and beauty is becoming stained, besmirched by the offspring of Alberich. You make common cause with the racial aliens even against yourselves. Your blood has thinned, your minds and instincts dulled; and the racial aliens have their way with you......turning loose their destroying armies against you, your women and your folk.
You have set over yourselves a government based upon doctrine that I did not teach you. My children, I did not teach you to give your lives over to the propagation of racial strangers, whose ancestors never lived with me in the forests. I taught you to love and cherish your own kind, to protect what is yours. I gave you beauty and wit, strength and will; these were witness to the singular greatness you possessed. Once, everyone knew you as my children.
What have you become? Whither goest thou? Will you humiliate yourselves to the point of extinction? Why? What could bring you to this sorry state? Because you are mine own, you possess the strength and the will to defeat any enemy.....lest the enemy be yourselves.
What is the false charity I see you slaving over? You allow your old folks to worry their last years while you give succor to aliens, those you have invited into your midst, and those you foolishly aid from afar. Know you not that these aliens hate your wealth? Alberich's children, too, wait at your gates, ready to come in and seize what little honor you have left. Is this what I taught you, my lessons ingrained onto your very souls? No children, I taught you to be proud and upstanding, not servile and base. I said to you long ago that, as few of you as there would be in the world of men, as long as you believed in yourselves those who would take your Aryan souls from you would fail to take from you that which I gave only to you. You were told not to share your blood, your soul-force and memories of me with racial strangers. They had their own gods; Alberich's children had their gold and you to conspire with them against the gifts I had given to you?
I , the Wander, come to you from the ancient times to say enough of this treachery and foolishness. You are my own, and my spear once protected you. The law of race and blood I gave to you was not to be breached....ever! I sent a messenger to lead you, a second Siegfried, a World Hero.....but you turned him out of your hearts and over to Alberich's executioners. He died by his own hand while you with envy gloated over his downfall.
My Aryan children, did I not lead you into victories in the past; were you not once the masters of the world? And would you not be masters still, had you not forgotten the wisdom I taught you? Valhalla is where I sit alone, bereft of my Aryan heroes; the Ravens tell me naught but tales of treachery and cowardice in the faces of thine enemies. I was your warrior god; you were my Aryan heroes. My life in Valhalla was filled with your valor, from which I drew my strength. But now you fill me with dread. You fear gnomes. You recoil from two-legged beasts that merely snarl at you. Oh my Aryan kinder, how I long for those days when you won the world and feared nothing and no one.
Wotan's power has long been broken. I live now only in the hearts and memory of those of you who feel the life-force you once rejoiced to live. You shared my life-force, and in death I honored you as heroes to be with me in Valhalla. Now there is little left to honor. The Ravens fly out daily to bring me word of your deeds, only to return to Valhalla to tell me that which I loathe to hear. You are dying, my Aryan kinder, of a sickness of your racial soul. The god-like graces I gave to you, which every other race but yours recognized, you have thrown down into the dust.
The Ravens bring word of a few who fight on, who stand for the greatness that is still in you. Will the few redeem the many? All too many refused to redeem themselves. Alberich's spawn have them firmly in their clutches, their Aryan souls twisted and distorted so that I can no longer recognize them as my own. Effeminate men who make futile arguments against courage. Troublesome woman who blacken the roles of mother and mate. Had I my old autority, my spear would strike them down!
But, then, I am one of your memories; the oldest, though not, I think, the fondest. No Aryan knows the name of Wotan and forgets his birth in the old forests, the great battles and victories, the tragedy of life. I can no longer come into your world with my Spear. I am unwelcomed into your hearts. You my children, who remember me and what you were, awaken your brothers to fight; councel your sisters in their distress.
Forfeit your future no more!
I dream of an heroic world order, a world that began in the forests, led through blood and honor to Valhalla, and finishes with your greatness written on Time itself, It can be that way again my Aryan children. Wotan calls upon his children to be great once more. You have it in you each one. For each of you there is a place in Valhalla. Courageous deeds are the key to glory. See yourselves as I saw you so long ago.

Inspired by Richard Wagner's "Ring Cycle" and composed in the spirit of
Wotan by Donald V. Clerkin, formaly of the Euro-American Alliance.


Through a broken shutter, Neath a dripping gutter, In the blackness
Of the night, A hooded form, Peers out at the rain, By a flickering
Candle light.
A hooded phantom, Or deity unknown, With the eye, Of a
glowing sun, And he made not a sound, As the rain beat down,
From the clouds, Over Albion.
In the mist, of the Teutoberg forest, On a tree, Two ravens sat,
Scarlet runes were spread, Where two wolves there tread, Round
an image, In a soft floppy hat.
And his eye, Gazed out in the darkness, Neither Druid, Wizard or
Sage, Twas an eye, The matrix of a universe, An eye, From a
distant age.
In life's crucible, Of truth and enigma, As in parables, Of myth and lore, Through religion of all stripes, Our blood archetypes, Have lived on, Since the days of yore.
And God, The unmovable mover, Molds infinity, Near oblivions
ridge, Through my lives, I have known him as Wotan, In Valhalla,
Cross the Bifrost Bridge.
For his right eye, Holds the sun that shines, His left eye, Holds the moon, His blue cape is the sky, With the stars on high, And Othala, Is his rune.
He reigns at Hlidskjalf, In Asgard, Where he knows, And see's all
things, Or raises a toast, With his Immortals, In the halls, Of the
Warrior Kings.
In the dimness of fog, Or in shadow, Or obscured, Under hat or hood, In the guise of Herne, with his antlers, Or the Greenman, In yonder wood.
Look keenly about, And look again, It's a world, full of mystery, The
Divinities and Spirits, Are among us, For those, With eyes to see.

..................................Ron McVan

"SONS OF ALBION" P.O. BOX 422 Butte, MT. 59703

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