I: Subterranean 

Glastonbury shapings; Carnac arrangings. 
Hypochthonic remnants summon Metachthonic 
tenants*. Songs of ages past lived 
and died still neolithic. Lore of ages 
past has waited for years to come to you. 
Raknehaugen, Anundshög, draw you through 
temporal murk. Sub-terranean remnants 
summon post-terranean tenants. We souls of 
ages past, we’ll tear up the earth to get to you. 
Buried neath the megalithic, spirits of ages 
past: the slumbering to rise again. Post-terranean 
vastlands, the self in terms electrical. 
All voiceless aspirants who hope in hexadecimals. 
We are the hypochthonic; we will give you 
voice. To you, the innate electronic, to rise 
above the noise. 

II: Song of Chthonia 

“We are the air that wakes with the dawn. We are 
the fire that burns with the midday sun. We are 
the water that cools with the dusk. We are the 
earth that restores with the midnight calm.” 
The times change like the river flows by: swift 
and raging. Never aware where its hurried 
course lies, yet ever racing. To take the times 
wholesale is to be taken by the times; to take 
the past wholesale is to be left behind. To 
weigh the finest of past and present is to 
navigate the times. In any year, culture, clime; 
to navigate is to thrive. Sing, sing to the sky the 
dark song of Chthonia. Sing loud, sing to the 
times, a call through Metachthonia. 

I am the air; far I shall roam 
Under the sky in all of its shades. 
I am fire; long I shall burn 
To renew the self and temper the blade. 

I am water; clear I shall flow 
To cleanse the self of what sullies the times. 
I am the earth; firm I shall stand. 
Hold fast to what shines through from the past. 

III: At Odell’s Heart 

When you stand among the pine, 
You stand in a far-stretching line 
Of all who've stood in rapture here 
And all who shall in coming year. 

For in the wood you are the same 
As those to come and those who came 
To root themselves in rapture here 
And those who shall in coming year. 

To sit at Odell's heart and contemplate the 
times among the fallen hemlock that rampart 
on all sides. To sit at Odell's heart and 
contemplate what's mine; what's mine to give, 
receive, provide; what's owed me by the times; 
what the times should give, provide, for all 
beneath them to thrive—so we know, like each 
fleck of snow in the storm, none is alone in this 
plight. It's a grounding, among these electric 
times to reflect what the times have become. 
To shrug off the wires and, in cool cedar air, 
think with forgotten clarity. A grounding, 
among these electric times. Your feet to the 
earth and your mind to its calm. Your soul to 
all who have stood where you are—to feel in 
their bones how timelessness flows now in the 
air around you. 

*hypochthonic: subterranean