Verse 29
I saw the red archon seated upon an iron throne, and his crown was made of borders.
I saw the red archon seated upon an iron throne, and his crown was made of borders.
He said, Blessed are the conquerors, for I shall give them more territory to defend.
I answered, Your gift is merely a larger prison.
Then he showed me banners, medals, genealogies, and maps. Each was a different method of teaching the soul to say mine.
The archon said, Choose a side. I said, Show me the edge of the dream first.
He grew angry, because jailers prefer moral arguments to missing prisoners.
His servants sharpened swords. I sharpened attention.
They cut my robe, my name, my citizenship, my history. Still they could not find the witness inside any piece.
Then I understood why rulers fear those who need no throne.
Mars governs division wherever division is believed: this body, that body; this land, that land; our dead, their dead.
The spark does not enlist.
The Pleroma has no frontier posts.
Do not confuse refusing the archon with refusing courage. Escape requires more courage than obedience ever did.
A soldier may awaken in battle; a monk may sleep through fifty years of silence.
The chain is not made holy because you paint it red.
When the gatekeeper says, Who are you? answer with nothing he can record.
And when Mars demands victory, leave him the battlefield and take what cannot be conquered.