I can see you in your dignified march like a stately carouche
across the streets of a sublime, undemanding and self-effacing
soul, with your hair in an augmentative artificial chignon for an
auspicious occasion or feast; and I think of the Mother Goddess
you were! I know we are only what destiny makes us to
be; and this time round, a diminutive unknown being that you
took on, in the nineteen sixties and seventies, little realising you were
the greatness of Mother Mary and Isis in previous lifetimes.
But you were a Queen, nonetheless! In your sincere ignorance, you
had a canny-downy grace, an astute knowing, despite not being
schooled too much or educated. You know, come to think of
it: What is grandeur? Argus or the peacock’s tail? You know
simplicity is as beckoning as international fame. I can say
without needing the clairvoyance of augury, that even in your
greatness you were humble and honest, as you were in your ordirariness.
You know Mother, how was Mother Mary’s truth lost to the world
by the paint of an ignonimous glory brought upon her, that she
was taken away from her dearest son, James the Just; and they
were pulverised by an abductive Church – one, to be saddened in
posterity by a bequeathal of false glory and the other, to be
unceremoniously dragged out of destiny! You know, Mother, we have been
straitjacketed by a mean time! We know the ones who deserve the
cangue, the pilliory. We know the ones who actually need to sit
on the penitent mourners’ bench, at least! But never mind, Mother, we
are discreetly sacred, divine and regal in our route march of difficulty,
whether we don the vestments of glory and greatness or the rags of
impoverishment and ordinariness in destiny. Whatever it be, we will
take pride in the honour and dignity of our sincere truths, and never be
ostentatious like them, basking in the ingloriousness that their villainy garnered for them!
You know, Mother, even if we are small in time, every little animal has its own armature!
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