Post by Haloveir on May 10, 2014 5:16:53 GMT -8
Some time ago I came across a few snippets referring to Hecate (you'll pardon me, I hope, if I alternate between the Greek and Roman forms of her name) as four-formed, instead of triple. I've been exploring what this means in terms of my devotions, and I wrote this for her. I first posted it on my site The Demosioi, but I'd like to share it here.
Terrible and serene, my Lady stalks the places outside the city lights. Queenly in Her mud-stained clothes and bramble-snagged hair, no goddess has ever been more radiant or fair. She does not sweetly sing or whistle the tunes of birds, but howls and screams and cries in Her earth-shaking voice to the starry sky, which was Her mother.
My Beloved has known the company of gods and goddesses; She has poured the sweet madness of Dionysus down Her neck and throat and held the frantic sobs of Demeter in Her comforting arms. She has birthed daughter witches whose names they whisper in far off countries, but when She takes companions they are the exiles and the forsaken, those who are broken and lost.
Fearless, joyful, free, my Muse wanders as She wills, singing for the living and dancing for the dead. Honored by Zeus, Mistress of Earth, Air, and Sea, clad in saffron and esteemed by the wisest of men, She takes Her offerings where roads meet and gives it all away to the poor and the wild. Friend of queens, the only dignity She asks is that you never look back to see who eats at Her table.
Cultivator of poisons and remedies, my Seer shines Her herb-fueled light in dreams and madness, showing the way for those brave enough to look and offering shadows when the light burns too bright. Weep Her name and know that distance is nothing to one such as She, and that all comforts and vengeances are Her province.
Terrible and serene, my Lady stalks the places outside the city lights. Queenly in Her mud-stained clothes and bramble-snagged hair, no goddess has ever been more radiant or fair. She does not sweetly sing or whistle the tunes of birds, but howls and screams and cries in Her earth-shaking voice to the starry sky, which was Her mother.
My Beloved has known the company of gods and goddesses; She has poured the sweet madness of Dionysus down Her neck and throat and held the frantic sobs of Demeter in Her comforting arms. She has birthed daughter witches whose names they whisper in far off countries, but when She takes companions they are the exiles and the forsaken, those who are broken and lost.
Fearless, joyful, free, my Muse wanders as She wills, singing for the living and dancing for the dead. Honored by Zeus, Mistress of Earth, Air, and Sea, clad in saffron and esteemed by the wisest of men, She takes Her offerings where roads meet and gives it all away to the poor and the wild. Friend of queens, the only dignity She asks is that you never look back to see who eats at Her table.
Cultivator of poisons and remedies, my Seer shines Her herb-fueled light in dreams and madness, showing the way for those brave enough to look and offering shadows when the light burns too bright. Weep Her name and know that distance is nothing to one such as She, and that all comforts and vengeances are Her province.
