Daily Archives: March 8, 2016
March 8 is the International Day of Women and is placed under the sign of the goddess of the month of March — Minerva. Minerva derives her name from the Latin mens (mind), and so she has a special relation to teachers and artists. Tradition has it that Minerva is a transformation of an earlier Etruscan and Sabine goddess taken over when Rome was established. She has also taken symbols and meanings from the Greek Athene, especially the owl as a sign of seeing in the dark, seeing what is usually hidden or instinctive. Minerva is she who brings ideas from the darkness into the light.
Minerva symbolized Rome as Athene, Athens. Minerva’s face was put on Roman coins and as such she travelled to the Roman provinces, becoming Britannia in England. She has come down through the centuries as the goddess of learning. In the US Library of Congress Great Hall, she holds a scroll on which are inscribed “Agriculture, Education, Commerce, Government, Economy” — all these are gifts from Wisdom’s store.
Read the whole article in Ovi Magazine, HERE!
Echoes of my footsteps hitting mouldy walls, arousing ghosts from the cold stones. Their screams rip my soul. Their whispers become my companions. I’m the silent shadow in the hallways out of time.
I think I was born here. I don’t remember other places or time, just these thick-wet walls all too high, these dark hallways all too cold and invisible ceilings never seen, up in the dark. And the windows. Unreachable pieces of light, high above my head, like thin cuts on flesh, almost invisible. White blood streaming down the walls. Thin rays of light, deadly blades that rip my shadow.
An endless labyrinth of pain. And I’m walking, chained without chains, collecting the wounds, absorbing the screams…
My face is pale and bloodless. My eyes are dark and lifeless. My hands are cold.
My heart is glowing lump. The beat of the beast beneath the burden of being.
The heat under the ice veils… Locked, painful.
I’m walking, going nowhere. This cold tomb is waiting for my end, for the last beat of my beast; to smash my flesh on this stones and spread my ash over the holes; to soak me into this mouldy walls and turn me into the screaming ghost.
I’m the silent shadow in the hallways of my tomb. The winds are howling through the ruins of my soul.
From Ovi Magazine