Category: Fragments
Os meus filhos morreram apedrejados por entre os mares esverdeados de Urak. Os meus lençóis tombaram ricos como punhais de lodo em mares silvados, nodos de morte e zelo. Os meus pais lançaram-se às aguas como peixes alados que tombavam ao longe de medo. Os meus doentes agrilhoaram-se às correntes de sebo que deles brotava…
Vivia escondido num pequeno prédio de seis andares na Portela. Tinha por hábito comprar uma série de revistas com quadradinhos brancos onde escrevinhava em várias línguas. O que o mais incomodava era saber que tinha ali uma série de coisas encravadas na língua, onde se lhe abriam os prazeres de uma vida encimada por névoas…
Havia uma curta esquina com vista para o alpendre. Bernardo entoava baixinho uma cantilena que havia aprendido com a avó em pequeno. Não sabia o nome, cantava por cantar no entreposto de chuva e neve naquela tarde de Fevereiro, onde corria uma marcha fúnebre. Nos olhos do morto haviam colocado duas pedrinhas cor de esmeralda,…
If interested in a personal liturgy and birth chart reading, please consult this portal. As the Sun transits through Cancer, the ancient science of the stars draws the attentive mind beyond the surface of solar movement, inviting reflection on the hidden depths beneath the visible heavens. In the veiled walls of traditional astrology, few techniques…
Throughout the labyrinth of mystical traditions, the figure of the psychopomp emerges with a gravity that transcends mere mythic utility. Rooted in the language of passage, the psychopomp is a bridge; one who guides souls across the perilous frontiers between worlds. In the secret liturgies of the ancients, this figure does not just open doors…
The Book of Ezekiel sits among the wildest precincts of Sacred scripture; a temple of riddles, a furnace of vision, a monument to the soul’s estrangement and the anguish of the city. Every line carries the scent of exile and fire; the prophet speaks from the shattered threshold, when nothing of the old world remains…
At the heart of the Tree of Life, there is an aperture; a doorway inscribed in silence, shimmering between what can be said and what must remain unknown. Da’at is the veiled Sephirah, the secret locus in the kabbalistic architecture of the cosmos. It is both a presence and an absence; a knowing that exceeds…
Collective Reading For When the Womb Sees What the Eyes Cannot If interested in a personal liturgy and reading, please consult this portal. The Mirror speaks as the lunar night folds upon itself at the threshold of Cancer’s anaretic degree; a moment when the cosmic womb completes its cycle and prepares to release the waters…
In the folds of the Levant’s mountains, there exist a people for whom the spoken word carries the weight of an oath. Their villages cluster like votive offerings upon slopes above Sidon and Chouf, their faith persists beneath the cedar’s bough, their names circulate through history as riddles unsolved. The Druze have endured centuries without…
There are moments in the slow procession of the heavens when the old architecture of meaning yields to the soft, inexorable logic of the body. Such is the cycle marked by the union of Sun and Jupiter in Cancer, the sign that belongs not to the warrior nor the sage, but to the hidden chamber…
