Seven utterances from the Hollow Mountain, where the wind still speaks in tongues of vine and iron, and the soil remembers names no longer spoken aloud.
It was said the Book would open by itself when the hour came.
And lo, the Book cracked under its own breath —
and from its pages leapt a flame of oracular salt.
✶ SALM I – Of the Coiling Gleam
She shall not speak to those who strike the grass before dawn.
The serpents that glitter blonde in the morning mist,
they bear no crown but that of hunger dressed in charm.
They coil not to teach, but to bind.
Let it be known to the one who reads:
that which glows but does not warm
is not of the Sun,
but of something left behind by the Moon’s first betrayal.
Do not touch it.
Let it writhe.
Let it fade.
Let it gnaw its own tail until even venom turns to dust.
✶ SALM II – Of the Watcher by the Brambles
He who walks barefoot by the brambles
knows the scent of those who hunted him.
He shall not curse them,
he shall smile with sap between his teeth.
For his feet know pain,
but his soles sing Psalms.
He is not of the palace.
He is of the ridge where the Prophet was tied,
and where the Ram, by accident or fire, was spared.
From such knowledge is wrought
the first vowel of V.I.T.R.I.O.L.
Visita.
Visit not the temple of lies.
Visit the wound.
✶ SALM III – Of the Wound That Listens
The Lord of Scorn has no dominion over the open wound.
For where it bleeds, there She breathes.
He shall not mock the fallen,
but he shall not kneel to them either.
The gift of the serpent is its fall,
not its whisper.
When the Reader is surrounded by clamor,
let them sit beneath a fig tree.
Let them hear the earth speak in pulse and ache:
“Be still – and I shall bloom in your rupture.”
✶ SALM IV – Of the Daughters of Flame and Fog
There shall come three daughters:
one with hands of milk,
one with lips of clay,
one with eyes made from the corners of vanished stars.
Each shall call the Reader “Beloved.”
Only one speaks true.
How to know?
The true one does not ask to be followed.
She leaves a rose where she stood
and disappears into fog, smiling.
Do not chase her.
Let her absence root in your chest like a secret herb.
✶ SALM V – Of the Crooked Altar
There shall be a time when even the altar cracks.
Let it.
Let it break where it was too smooth.
Let the stones tilt. Let the cloth burn.
The Reader must learn this:
perfection is not entry.
Fracture is the invitation.
Truth limps.
From the fifth crack in the fifth stone,
something green shall emerge.
Intra.
Inward is not down.
Inward is holy.
Inward is whole.
✶ SALM VI – Of the Tongue That Burned Clean
The Reader shall one day speak
and the words shall not belong to them.
Their jaw shall ache,
their tongue swell,
their lips blister with brightness.
Then they will know:
The Serpent’s fall has ripened.
And the Reader
they are no longer Reader.
They are Mouth.
They are Blade.
They are Dust and Dew and Lawless Law.
They shall not argue.
They shall utter.
✶ SALM VII – Of the Last Laugh in the Orchard of Time
At last, the Reader shall arrive
where there are no gates.
Only an orchard.
Half-burnt. Half-blooming.
Time itself half-asleep in the branches.
There, the serpents lie curled and cold.
There, the idols are toothless.
There, the echoes of scorn
try once more to rise and fail.
And the Reader shall smile.
Not with vengeance.
Not with grief.
But with the calm of someone who drank the wind
and lived.
There is no final word.
Only laughter.
And the echo of feet walking away,
barefoot, toward the Mountain.
✶
V.I.T.R.I.O.L.
Visita Interiora Terrae, Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem
– Et serpens, incandescens, erit tua rosa.