NOS: BOOK of the RESURRECTION by Miguel Serrano (Excerpt)

She came even closer, so that he could feel the agitated rise and fall of her breasts. And she brushed his lips with hers. It was like the touch of a petal, or of honey stored in drifting icebergs, honey from polar bees or the midnight sun; honey from a Copihue surrounded by a halo of light from the Morning Star.
Such a kiss produces unexpected consequences in a man. Either it causes him to lose his spiritual virility, his destiny as a sacred warrior, his hallowed reticence; or else it instils such strength in him that he is able to free the giants from their prison in the rocks and raise the Continent of the Spirit, EL-ELLA, alongside the martyred coasts of the south of the world.

She let her red grown fall. And she stood naked, while the flames enveloped her in a light which was nevertheless incapable of clothing her Absolute Nakedness.
He could smell the woman's integral perfume, like a breath of soft air flowing from a universe preserved for him alone. A whole continent to explore, with its seas, its hills, its shadows, its secrets. And now he remembered that, on the other side of the light, when he first contemplated the woman, the warriror had succumbed, thus giving rise to the infinite turnings of the wheel.
He carried her to the bed of branches, beside the fire. He drew his sword and placed it between them. She stretched out an arm over the blade and clasped his hand.

'Beloved, do not fall asleep! Watch with me through this long night. We will be two sleepwalkers allowing ourselves to be guided by the legend of our White Gods. They will show us the path and inspire us. Let us awaken tonight.'
'How could we sleep! May this sword protect us. My love and desire for you are more powerful and inextinguishable than this fire. I know that they will not be calmed merely by my taking possession of your body.'
'I am the scabbard of your sword, made of wood from the apple trees of Avalon, from the Tree of Paradise, from the Hyperborean oaks, from the tree whose silken threads join the earth to the sky. If you sheathe me carelessly, you will break me. How many times has this happened already in the Circle of Return! We only have a limited amount of time in which to put the pieces of the broken scabbard back together again, after which we will lose each other, absorbed into HIM-HER and HER-HIM. And we will have lost our only chance of resurrection, of giving a face to our souls, of attaining a world beyond God, beyond all the Gods, in a dream which not even the most impassioned Walkers of the Dawn could dream: to break down the walls of the great circle and end the turnings of the wheel. We have a limited number of opportunities to sound our notes in their purest form. We must do everything in our power to drink from the cup of immortality, discovering the stone of change. I am ready. I shall give you my death. I shall place my eternity in your hands and fulfil to the utmost the Myth of Virile Immortality. And together we will have triumphed.'

Thus were completed the different stages of this most ancient Hyperborean Initiation of A-Mor, revealed in the mystery of the Grail, in the esotericism of the troubadours and the Minnesänger of the High Middle Ages. Transported to the icy wastes of the south of the world, with Parsifal, in a Templar's ship, with the Vermilion Cross on its white sails and all its lights on, as the saga tells us, and from 'whence it never returned'. To the true Kingdom of Hyperborea of the White Gods of America-Albania.
And while the ultimate test of this initiation was taking place in that ancient night, with a man and a woman lying naked side by side, separated by a sword, without taking possession of each other's physical body, she explained to him in her musical voice full of longing for eternity: 'The light doesn't come from the east. Light is only truly light in the depths of midnight. Now is the depths of midnight. The followers of Lucifer, of the Morning Star, do not beg to be allowed into heaven. They demand to be, because they feel that they have done everything possible to merit being deified. At the end of our road, no fusion with a God or redeemer awaits us. Our way is not the way of ecstasy of the saints but the way of separation of the magicians, of the White Gods who have become absorbed into the sources of creative energy. Creating worlds, loving each other inside and outside eternity. We do not beg, like the lunar troubadour: "Take us back to where you took us from!" We are going to try and change God, giving him a face. Therefore, my love, do not take possession of my body. Let us not create children of the flesh. I will make you pregnant with the son of death. And we will both remain virgins.' [...]

'We are living dangerously, my love. You bear the sign on your forehead. We belong to a different race. When we become conscious of all our bodies at once, crossing the most diverse vibrations of the ether, we will know how to love each other solely with the glance, with the pleasure that never dies.'
She turned towards him, without letting go of his hand: 'I am the scabbard of your sword. Sheathe me gently, softly, tonight. Do not break me. Your sword is double-edged. Its scabbard is called Minne, Blood Memory. The memory of the love lost at the beginning of time flows through the blood. Seek me in your blood, keep it pure. When you remember what your blood tells you, sing it. You will be a warrior-troubadour, a Minnesänger, who will have sung our dream of resurrection and eternal love for all eternity. 'Heil!'