I see the terpsichore of the universe, Diana the huntress, pursuing the light of Lucifer with her arrows and bow so that he may sire Aradia, Queen of the Witches. She wears a toga that bares her small, pert breasts and has hair of wood bark that unfurls like an elegy. We are in a blue kingdom, with topaz horizons. The melancholy of Lucifer’s wintry yet summertime wastes and hills and hollows of harrowing Wood of Suicides forms a starry, leafy backdrop for Diana, and she shoots an arrow at Lucifer, he the fleeing hind, and it pierces his right shoulder and he is lovestruck, starstruck, moonstruck by the Goddess. I witness their dance of night and light, two sashaying yin and yang gods of cosmos’ creation. Diana presses a kiss of roses to his hips, and his lips, and time is a thief in the kingdom of ghosts.
Lucifer pulses with starlight, cold, virile sunlight, and fructifies Diana’s fields. Aradia is but a thought in her womb, and I the scribe of the Divine Twins sit clad in a toga, illuminating a manuscript of the Gospel of the Witches. They pulsate with potential, these twins, Lucifer cleft from Diana’s right side, once Androgyne Perfectum of philosopher’s stone, now two separated brother and sister beings who crave the cracks in each others skin that leak moonbeams. Diana is his Queen, Diana is his consort, and she reigns over his golden potentate Hypnos daydreams.
They are silky in sin, only in Eden, in Lucifer’s hazy doldrums, sin is not a thing, just a dream. Aradia is not yet born, the first witch has not yet sold her soul to the King of Witches, and she has not yet fathered Cain with Samael. Aradia flushes Diana’s womb pink and Lucifer awakens in bed from Diana’s catstruck disguise to reel in horror that he has defiled his Goddess. Diana’s catskin sneaks away, out into a chariot of night, and Lucifer flees as the stars leave a wide berth for Diana’s womb, back to his cold home, back to his abode with false light, and Diana carries their child over moonbows to a kingdom of ice. Aradia gestates, Aradia blinks inside uterine depths, eating manna of the meadows and venison.
When nine months pass, and Diana swells like the moon, she journeys to Arcadia, where even Death hesitates to tread, and she goes into labor with Leto and her wolves and nymphs at her side, and together they birth the first witch, Aradia in Arcadia of golden light! Sunlight like her father, moonglow like her mother, starlight encapsulated in a full-grown girl that breached her mother’s womb like an elegant whale beaching herself on the shores of infinity, but for a taste of air beyond the tomb of womanhood! Diana raises Aradia in the hollows and wild pastoral forests and hills of Arcadia. Et in Arcadia ego Aradia. Et in Arcadia!
Lucifer watches in despair, his seed stolen by his wily, proud breasted sister. Diana becomes a myth of a fairy queen on the tongues of Europe. Aradia teaches Stregharia to the thirsty women sick of men’s machinations, lusting after wilderness, and they mount brooms to join the Queen of the Witches in Black Sabbat whirlwinds! Oh, how witch fever sweeps the ancestors of my homelands! Oh, how mistresses of magic were accused of stealing cow milk! Oh, how Aradia was rediscovered by Leland!
Once, when Aradia was in her father’s cold kingdom, the land of blues and topaz, Samael the serpent descended on her garden, and he offered her Eros’ rose, but for a night of passion, and so the Father of the Witches Cain was conceived. Diana’s vision, Lucifer’s wisdom, and Samael’s drugs, all frothing in Aradia’s womb! Time is a thief, time is a thief, and us witches forget Aradia, neglect Diana, demonize Lucifer, cast out Samael, ignore Cain.
But in the hills of Italy, I say, in Arcadia, death goes everywhere, and Aradia is the Grim Reaper’s handmaiden!
ET IN ARCADIA, EGO.
Dances with Tricksters 