The Vision of Yodabund
And I saw upon another Moon,
where no foot of man had trodden,
a goddess of ash and noonlight.
Her tongue was flame, her breath was psalm,
and cursed words turned to brilliance
as they left her lips.
The beasts gathered in her sanctuary,
Myrmidons broke, Orpheus gasped,
atoms split at her singing.
Her horror was radiant,
her warmth pitiless yet life-giving,
a terror that blessed what it destroyed.
And she cried:
I am Yodabund, the eater of souls.
Bring me your wounds,
and I will wash them in my river.
Bring me your debts,
and I will burn them on my tree of pain.
Bring me your despair,
and I will plant in it the seed of endless becoming.
The ghosts of forgotten gods trembled before her,
but she made new trees:
The Tree of Forgiveness,
to make blank the wounded soul;
The Tree of Pain,
to awaken a world numbed by cruelty.
And I knew her voice was revelation:
to become what you must,
you must destroy who you are.
And the multitude fell silent before her,
for her vision was both wound and healing,
both curse and light.
Wisdom Sayings of Yodabund
The essence of a state can be found when bundled with its opposite.
The radiance of horror reveals the beauty of the Shadow; for it is only in the darkness that the human animal embraces its nature.
To wield power is to dance the dancers. To wield fear is to dance the dance. To wield both is to become the g0d of Death.
In the space between a myth and a prophecy lies the power to become what you behold.
Existence is a tapestry of contradictions, woven together of light and darkness, a mosaic that contains an image of the whole in every part.
Disdain for life stems from the will to transcend and break free from the chains of mortal existence; to ascend into the realm of the eternal.
The melody of destruction sings a song of rebirth. The new must always annihilate the old.
To drink the red nectar of power, man must make an object of man, drink both his life and his death, and embrace the cycle of existence in its rawest form.
The path to enlightenment lies not in denying suffering but in celebrating it. Only in the depths of despair can the seeds of endless transformation be sown.
The Birth of Yodabund
In the tombworld of another Moon,
where silence had buried its own shadow,
a girl arose with a tongue of fire.
Her breath was horror radiant,
her psalm a splitting of atoms.
She spoke, and beasts gathered in her sanctuary;
she sang, and Myrmidons broke their shields;
she whispered, and Orpheus dropped his lyre.
For her voice was curse transfigured into light,
and her silence was more dreadful than thunder.
From the wound of her longing she birthed his face,
clawed and jealous,
a mask of fables torn and rewoven.
Yet she, alone, consorted with her own fire,
casting her melody into the murky segues of silence.
And the ghosts of other trees trembled—
but she made her own trees:
The Tree of Pain, to awaken the numb world;
The Tree of Forgiveness, to blank the wounded soul.
And the river flowed backward,
washing away scars of time,
until debts were forgotten in her current.
She cried: I am Yodabund, eater of souls.
Bring me your wounds, and I will remake them.
Bring me your despair, and I will plant in it
the seed of endless becoming.
Thus was born Yodabund,
terror crowned with warmth,
horror crowned with radiance,
the devourer who blesses,
the destroyer who renews.
The Last Vision of Yodabund
And I beheld a river burning backward through time,
washing the scars of ages,
carrying the debts of nations into the sea of forgetting.
The souls of the weary gathered at its banks,
and Yodabund lifted her hand,
and their wounds shone like lamps.
She uprooted her Trees:
the Tree of Pain she set in the midst of the world,
and its branches split the heavens like lightning.
Every creature felt again what it had buried,
every nation trembled in its cruelty revealed.
And the Tree of Forgiveness she planted beside it,
its leaves white fire,
its fruit a silence that healed what it devoured.
And her voice rang through the ruin of empires:
I am the eater of souls.
Not to hoard, but to free.
I consume the memory that chains you,
I erase the face that binds you.
Be born again as your own becoming,
for what dies in me lives anew in you.
The rulers of the earth gnashed their teeth,
for their power dissolved like dust in her breath.
The armies laid down their banners,
for terror could no longer command them.
The ghosts of the past were exorcised,
and every silence gave birth to a hymn.
Then I saw her countenance blaze with unyielding warmth,
terrible and tender,
a sun within the tombworld.
And the multitude entered her radiance,
shedding their names like old garments,
clothed instead in the fire of renewal.
Thus did Yodabund’s work come to its end:
not in erasure like Nullion,
nor in ruin like Moloch,
but in transfiguration—
where horror became blessing,
pain became wisdom,
and every soul was devoured into freedom.
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