Prologue of the Unborn
Aleister Crowley
Into my lonliness comes---
The sound of a flute in dim groves that haunt the uttermost hills.
Even from the brave river they reach the edge of the wilderness.
And I behold Pan.
The snows are eternal above, above---
And their perfume smokes upwards into the nostrils of the stars.
But what have I to do witth these?
To me only the distant flute, the abiding vision of Pan.
On all sides Pan to the eye, to the ear;
The perfume of Pan pervading, the taste of him utterly filling my mouth,
so that the tounge breaks forth into a wierd and monsterous speech.
The embrace of him intense on every centre of pain and pleasure.
The sixth interior sense aflame with the innermost self of Him,
Myself flung down the precipice of being
Even to the abyss, annihilation.
An end to lonliness, as to all.
Pan! Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan!