Crater-wound,

by J. W. Cassandra

The poem is my most recent work. It is hosted by the "Aeon Poems page". The subtitles also give a guide: the first poem I wrote forty-five years ago is the Descent. This poem is the Middle, and the Aeon is the Ascent.

The structure of the poem is irregular. With this, it emphasizes the message: stolen magic is the loss of pure existence. The being descends entirely to the Iron Age, which corresponds to the Kali Yuga period of Indian philosophy. The descent into matter is carried out to final destruction – this appears on the cheeks as craters and trenches, which also refer to Armageddon.

In the last part of the poem, the alchemical transmutation occurs: from the dark Iron Age and Armageddon, the being reaches pure Being, a thousand boughs of it. The silver and gold magic of the cheeks is a symbol of duality.

The whole work is in fact a large-scale philosophy of religion, which began with the Descent: see my previous poem "Homo Sapiens Sapiens 1981". At the same time, it is the axis of transformation, i.e., the Centre, which leads to "The Aeon," which expands the transformation into the cosmic.

Centre

Thy silver magic has been stolen –
Silver tears carve out its absence:
Craters tear thy silver face.

A dull gaze stares into nothingness –
There is no one to heal the crater-wound!

Thy golden magic has been stolen –
Golden tears carve out its absence:
Craters tear thy golden face.

A dull gaze stares into nothingness –
There is no one to heal a crater-wound!

Thy silver magic is but dust –
Trenches gnaw at thy silver face!
Trenches are covered in iron-dust, rust –
Eternal absence – a spot of the Iron Age.

Thy silver magic has been mocked –
Upon a silver face, slashed by trenches,
Light goes astray – on its way to thee!

A gaze stares at the silver Orb –
Tears wash thy face clean, of diamond.

Thy golden magic is but dust –
Trenches gnaw at thy golden face!
Trenches are covered in iron-dust, rust –
Eternal absence – a spot of the Iron Age.

Thy golden magic has been mocked –
Upon a golden face, slashed by trenches,
Light goes astray – on its way to thee!

A gaze stares at the Sun, so golden-bright –
Tears wash thy face clean, of diamond.

The Lunar Ring lures thy silver magic –
Thy face shall bear a spot, no more:
A thousand silver boughs of Being flourish!

The Solar Crown scatters thy golden magic –
Thy face shall bear a spot, no more:
A thousand golden boughs of Being flourish!

Written: 01 / 06. 2026, by J. W. Cassandra

Translated: 01 / 06. 2026, by J. W. Cassandra

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