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“You’ve got to admit it’s a bit of a pantomime, though,” said Crawly. “I mean, pointing out the Tree and saying ‘Don’t Touch’ in big letters. Not very subtle, is it? I mean, why not put it on top of a high mountain or a long way off? Makes you wonder what He’s really planning.”
And Jehovah God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: the green rolling hills of the First Garden, a scattering of apple blossoms and apple pulp, a handful of pomegranate seeds, and a soft, serpentine hiss of poisonous green musk, opoponax, and frankincense.
`It isn’t manners for us to begin, you know,’ said the Rose, `and I really was wondering when you’d speak! Said I to myself, “Her face has got some sense in it, thought it’s not a clever one!” Still, you’re the right colour, and that goes a long way.’
`I don’t care about the colour,’ the Tiger-lily remarked. `If only her petals curled up a little more, she’d be all right.’
Alice didn’t like being criticised, so she began asking questions. `Aren’t you sometimes frightened at being planted out here, with nobody to take care of you?’
`There’s the tree in the middle,’ said the Rose: `what else is it good for?’
`But what could it do, if any danger came?’ Alice asked.
Red rose, oud, plum, bergamot, and red sandalwood.
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The “Treues Liebes Herz” of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
“The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.”
But she–she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
The dead are dancing with the dead, the dust is whirling with the dust: angel’s trumpet, violet, white sandalwood, oude, copaiba balsam, angelica, white tea, olibanum, and oakmoss.
The Wrath of God, the Most Beautiful Lord of Lightning, the Owner of All Palaces. He is the illumination of a lightning strike in the night sky, and is the retributive strike of the rightful king. Shango punishes those who are not living up to their responsibilities. He gives insight to the truth in all circumstances, and is the essence of the thrill and excitement in life that makes every day worth living. To love Shango is to live life to the fullest, no matter what pains the world inflicts upon you. He is Wrath, and his lightning bolts and gouts of fire remind all of his strength and power. It is said that Lord Shango only speaks to his children once; when the God illuminates an answer for you, you had best understand with no further questions. Shango is trial by fire, the honing and refinement of the spirit, the ability to distinguish between truth and lies. He is a dual-faced God: King and Exile, miser and philanthropist, just and ruthless, honest and devious. Shango is the Lord of Persuasion, and his glib tongue can intimidate, coerce, sway and seduce. He is quick wit, articulate words, and the ability to think on one’s feet. He is the King that can incite and enflame the masses with the power of his speech. His words are the sensual murmurs of the lothario, the slick wheedle of the grifter, the convincing argument of the barrister, the dangerous charm of the pimp, the inspiration of the warrior general, and the invigorating exhortations of the monarch. The Roar of Shango is a Universal Truth. Shango governs all professions that cater to the needs and weaknesses of the people. He is the absolute and perfect Male creature, and the rain that falls to earth is His blessed, sublime semen, giving life to the world. His abundant seed washes the land and replenishes Earth’s seas, rivers and oceans. He sneers at cowardice, and demands that all of his children have daring spirits, strength of will, nerve and *balls*. Courage is of the utmost importance, as it empowers us to face adversity with dignity and enables us to act decisively and with resourcefulness. Live, don’t simply exist. Shango’s gifts make it possible for us to find the shortest distance between two points, wring out the best from every situation, recover from every seeming loss and every defeat, and defy all odds to reach our goals. He teaches us wily strategies, masterful tactics, and shows us the value of friendship and camaraderie. His is the comfortable, casual friendship found in just hanging out and having a good time with the guys. Shango is Challenge, the concept of finding the best parts of yourself through conflict and adversity. Shango’s weapon is the double-headed axe, and His animals are the black cat and the leopard.
The Master of Lightning’s ofrenda contains red apples, banana, chili pepper, coconut, pineapple, pomegranate and sugar cane.
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