A god’s funeral

By Feldiorean Stephen-Alexander
(based on ‘Edenbeast’ song by My Dying Bride)

Whispers and flutes… these are the only sounds my wounded ears can hear in the gloomy
light of the dusk. I know there is not too much time left before it happens. I knew it would
come. However, I don’t have the smallest clue when it will or when. As all my senses are sat
at rest, I can not make head or tail of what iss taking place. All I can see are the bars my eyes
have as I am making efforts to see the crams of light which still glitter on the scarlet sky. I
saw… I see a point on the dying horizon departing from my hurting corpse; I do not know if it
is a raven or it was a gryphon. All I know is that my limbs become number with every passing
second. Oblivion was the sole haven and my obsolete punishment for my cruel sins, for it had
been my mistake to love an evanescent being.
But let us not prolong it for more. I try to hold my last breaths on this sinful earth as to
leave you, my dear friend, my legacy as I am the last of the ‘Fallen ones’. I have no fortunes
to call mine, but the most treasured pearl for me is this: all I know and all I have kept in me
for centuries in line. There is nothing more violent, more destructive, more deflowering than
all the wounds and all the scars which come in one’s life, though these are the most precious
qualities which one can ever hold. There is nothing to be more ashamed of, more proud of or
more devoted to speak of than the misfortunes of life which continue to snare us and which
strengthen us at times of trouble.
Now let I, the one whose soul has been unwillingly taken by the Fallen, speak. It was not
until my mother, the kind and gentle Lilith of the Damned, gave birth to the most beautiful
fiend Eden’s garden had ever seen that I saw the light. For now she guards the denatured halls
of Endurance, where her last sighs will be heard for centuries. That being said, my friend, is
the price she had to pay to make me what I am now: a Fallen. All of her dreams have been
mercilessly shattered in a single moment of wickedness of her sole heir. A single moment in
which an impervious soul had been mesmerized by the frail and innocent face of a mortal
child.
It still haunts me. It still rejuvenates those pains for which I have been dealt this
punishment. I can never look to the sky with the same eyes, for there are only two hollow
sockets in which a small spark still glims.
I have raped, for I could not have what I wanted to poses. I have taken forcefully from an
infant what was forbidden by the unwritten laws of Heaven . Yes, I have a committed a sin. I,
an angel. I have been punished to see my monstrous metamorphosis every dusk and every
dawn. I am neither a human, neither a demon and an angel can never be spoken of. Oh, you
wicked, fetid, dim soul, you craved for what was never meant to be yours.
Now it is my final day, for the one who was hurt by me, Etherigon, has come to peace
with me and has granted me forgiveness, though he will never be able to forget. I am finally
allowed to smell the divine scent of earth, to see the canvas of the sky painted in vibrant
lights, to hear the flute of the birds, the sonnets sung by the wolves, troubadours of night, to
enjoy the symphony of wind. But still this heavenly painting is the emprisonment of a prison.
I have seen for the last decades my body decomposing over and over again, my flesh rotting,
turning into mud, then being burnt by the gentle beams of sun. My arms stretch and twist
every day, contorsioning into canopies of living dead. My head would become a giant, dark
plated leather cap which held in its wombs the hearts of thousands of misanthropists. My hair
becomes at the dawn a despicable mutant, a restless hydra with tens of tentacles painted in the
most beautiful putrefied purple a human’s eyes have ever seen. Oh, my body aches and shouts
in vin for cures, for divine remedies, but divinity wil never hear my beggings. I feel my
organs being scorched by the hatred my wicked heart holds. My smile, once brighter than the
sun itself, now is the birthplace of monsters and every monster’s placenta. I have been laid
into a huge throne made of abortions’ melting bodies, the table where all my grieves gather on
filthy pieces of papiruses is made of the suppurating wounds of those who were spiritually
hurt. Well…
It has come… I can no longer see the sun hiding behind grey clouds… I can only bee the
timid admirer of the play behind this beautifully painted veil, for all my senses die in a gentle
way… I will no longer hear the flutes and whispers of the earth, for all my horrible mistakes
have finally come to an end. All my sufferings will now slowly fade and all that will be left
will be a single silently shouted ode in the ears of dying ghouls. I, my friend, have come to an
end….