I don’t remember much. Why am I awake? What’s called for me? They often have called for me, and spoken to me in the past. I have always been, as far as I can recall. I can’t recall far. I’m awake. I know who I am. Who has called for me, this time? There has been a great death, and a great rebirth. Is it this that calls to me, that sings my name, "Deidre"? I hate the earth. I have come again from the earth. The earth is my womb. I rise from my womb and I shall lead them. They have often forgotten in the past. They shall forget no longer. I shall remind them. I hear Her voice, and she sings to me. I have my own song, as well. It is a song of birth and death. It is a song of resurrection. It is a song of memory, and teaching them, again, what they should not forget.
All saints revile her, and all sober men
Ruled by the Gods’ golden mean –
In scorn of which we sailed to find her
In distant regions likeliest to hold her
Whom we desired above all things to know,
Sister of the mirage and echo.
It was a virtue not to stay,
To go our headstrong and heroic way
Seeking her out at the volcano’s head,
Among pack ice, or where the track had faded
Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:
Whose broad high brow was white as any leper’s,
Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,
With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.
The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir
Will celebrate with green the Mother,
And every song-bird shout awhile for her;
But we are gifted, even in November
Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
Of her nakedly worn magnificence
We forget cruelty and past betrayal,
Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.
[Robert Graves, The White Goddess]
