The God Who Comes by Richard Levy - Read by Geoff Stansfield
The God Who Comes and Calls
The God who comes does not come because he is named
He does not come because he is summoned
He does not come because he is called
He comes because he comes.
It is a basic truth
Fueled by primal fire
He is free, truly free,
Some have tried to bind him but the fetters fall forlorn
And his wrath felt by this fallen captors
When he sings the wind dances and spell books fall from his mouth to find seeking hearts.
He is the coursing of your blood and the fire in your soul
When you weep he is the primal scream and when you laugh he is the rapture of raw elation.
His dance is the dance of life and death and we all know its steps, we dance to it every day even if we are unaware that we do.
For those who do call him his names,
And they are endless he comes and is often horned and goat footed but countless are his forms though common are his ways.
And he speak storms and weeps rivers
Animals call him ceaselessly.
Trees whisper his name in the leaves
And where he steps life is fed and his shadow is death and decay
His whisper deaths lamentation and celebration.
When you think of him poetry will fall form your lips tempest tossed and instinctual
What can recall you scribe and what you can’t coruscates the astral like a nebula that shines to mourn the star it once was.
To know him is pain and to know him delight
To feel him is to be yourself and live deliciously and with potency.
When you sit with him you remember everything:
The wisdom of your bones and the memories of your fallen.
When he whispers to you it is the language of making and shaping: it builds worlds and bridges and brings down walls.
It is the source language, it reminds you of that dream you have had that you have had since childhood always on the edge of your memory, haunting you like a whispering ghost.
It feels like a nursery rhyme you have always known but hear differently now
It is words on the edge of you memory you had forgotten to speak and will become the utterance of your spells. His heart the forge of your spell-speech.
It is the language of magic.
The language of magic can be heard between whispered secrets and in the breeze that stirs the leaves. It can be felt in the stillness that exists before the breathe becomes the word.
It can be heard in notes of liturgy and in the crude swearing of the dying clutching for life.
It is the speech of truth flying directionless from the Tower of Babel.
It exists as a fleeting shadow and pale reflection in all the worlds’ languages and yet it can be spoken in all of them.
In the art of understanding this you are Witch, you are Mage.
But no language is just for speaking, it is for listening, to receive. From this we can learn his truest wisdom and the deeper magic that comes from silence.
The God who comes does not come because he is called
He comes because he comes
And it is he that does the calling.