Wilsash - A Commissioned Piece

Page the fifth: neatly written, with a dry comment at the top: "First commission! Now to create a pretence of passion, to prostitute the Art for sordid gold... what fun."

Bright.

Bright is the Moon's shining light.
Pale is its face in the sky,
As the werewolf raises its cry,
Through the shadows of night.

Night.

Dark are the shadows of night,
Casting their spell on the mind.
Who knows what one may find,
Something of dread or of might?

Pure.

Pure is the one who may see,
What Wilsash, His touch, does reveal.
Fear - perhaps one may feel,
And be most ready to flee.

Fear.

But fear is the refuge of weakness:
Cowards do tremble and stare,
Before their most noble nightmare,
When it raises its hand - to bless.

Bless.

For a blessing is Wilsash's great Gift,
Which pierces the depths of the soul.
Shows what we hide - makes us whole,
Gives knowledge of any cruel rift.

Power.

O Wilsash, your power is such,
That You shape Your realm for us each.
So let us all heed what you teach,
And worship you, feeling your touch.

Worship.

Glorious shall be sacrifice!
Dark blood must flow on the pale
Face of the Moon - do not fail:
Repay the Lord an adequate price.

Price.

For much is owed to the Lord of Nightmare,
Who grants us such priceless self-knowledge.
'Tis simple enough to give Him due homage,
And if this should be lacking - beware!

Beware.

For the Moon-Lord does rule His great plane,
None shall escape 'less He grants it.
His power needs nothing t' enhance it,
So fear lest He cause you much pain.

Pain.

So worship the pale moon's white light,
Join in with the werewolf's wise howl.
For weakness shall never befoul
Those who bow down to His might.


From The Collected Writings of Izrick.