Until The Time Of Zarathustra

Until The Time Of Zarathustra

by Charles E S Fairey

The seed must be watered

To become a flower,

But if the stem be a pillar of salt

No outpouring of water will save its hour,

Until the time of Zarathustra

And the coming of the worldly tower.

The mighty seed grew upward

Entwining itself around the tower,

Coiling its branches embracing the stone

Whilst it grew, heaven began to cower,

For it knew once it bore fruit again

It was earth's final and ending hour,

For He that sat at the top of the pillar

Was the salt of the whole of the earth,

And He had dominion over everything

And had done since His noble birth,

But now with wings of everlasting darkness

He enveloped the Light and invited His curse,

For into Omega He would ascend

For He no longer wished to nurse,

A humanity or world without a future.

The seed must be watered

To become a flower,

But if the stem be a pillar of salt

No outpouring of water will save its hour,

Until the time of Zarathustra

And the coming of the worldly tower.

What really is supposedly wrong or right

When we are living through the final night,

What use are our morals and godly beliefs

When others hate and wish to quarrel and bite,

What use is it to try and find a common ground

When our opponent has no foundation round?

Everything is just for the wisdom of the self

To remind us of what our destiny attained,

And to judge nudge or advise our brothers

From such a holy mission we must refrain,

For our enemies of the well learned individual

Believe their evil actions are of God and sane,

Whilst to the deserted plains I do desert

To my balance of the beast to tame,

For it was the beast they wished to conquer

But they go hell for leather without answer,

To end it all upon a high

Whilst the real wither and die,

For they care not for the common man

And only serve their own want and hand

And I just wait in the flame and sand.

The seed must be watered

To become a flower,

But if the stem be a pillar of salt

No outpouring of water will save its hour,

Until the time of Zarathustra

And the coming of the worldly tower.

The eternal rift of man and spirit

And the undying of the flame,

And the man who set fire to the earth

Yet with Armageddon you thought the same,

But the spirit is the catalyst for change

The man with a spirit of fire is about to reign.

For if a flower grows into a sparklike spike

Let its iron nails fall like shards into the soil,

For once and wholly the balance is broke

The heart, mind and soul needs not toil,

For why slither to pluck the seed from the maid

If around her you bit, clawed and coiled,

For they poisoned themselves

So too their wound you oiled,

Bit and sunk in your razorlike fangs

A deadly bite whilst the world recoiled,

No start no end just dust upon soil

Burning in neverending flame fed oil

Clawing scratching with tooth and nail,

For utter and complete no sense prevailed

For now Death was fully unclothed unveiled

Whilst the last Revelation proclaimed and bellowed,

Son of Man your hour is out of time

And I commit you to the sea of brine,

For the earth is full of salt

And nothing will grow,

The pillars have fallen to dust

And your flesh for the crow,

Come never return to from whence you came

For even the garden didn't escape the hoes,

And as such the grim reaper to’s and fro’s

Back back and forth he unceasingly goes.

The seed must be watered

To become a flower,

But if the stem be a pillar of salt

No outpouring of water will save its hour,

Until the time of Zarathustra And the coming of the worldly tower.