Twelve Labours

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Twelve Labours

Poem

Of the labours I can now speak, the twelve ends we must seek;
Pliant body of supple health, full-bodied robust like earth,
Vital of many ardours and none exceed norm’s borders,
Mind to venture borders of heaven, implore true the Sages Seven;
Psychic of yellow-gold mane, trammelling imperial on every plane,
Intuition like a heaven-hound, hunting the elf in every ground,
Full subtle-eye for vision, the soul’s method of supracognition,
An equality in all members to endure force that mortality sunders;
A wide labour that never shirks to all impulsions for divine works,
Courage against horrors objective that are only phantasms subjective,
Questing aspiration for resplendence that ends only with transcendence.
An ardour for all that is made by blessed hand of the Beloved,
Never to abandon what is His in pursuit of His supernal bliss.