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Προφητεία (22)



I sit here on my ice throne in Antarctica—in a chamber that glows green. I am surrounded by my penguins, these are my pets—my black-and-white labradors. The penguin is a tame animal—it can be taught many things, even an elementary form of English (the words are communicated in a telepathic form). I sit here in my black uniform and inspect my soldiers—every man an esoteric warrior for the Order of the Black Sun.


I was born here, in Antarctica, in 1984—the year the Americans bombed us. For years, they have sought our redoubt—our fastness beneath the ice (you can detect it on the horizon by its glow, green like St. Elmo’s Fire—that which is also called “Witchfire”, that which is like the phosphorescent Hound of the Baskervilles). Yes—I was born as the American missiles fell on the ice and shattered the tundra. It was an exploratory raid—they hit nothing of consequence.


Antarctica keeps her secrets—the secrets of the Esoteric SS, the order into which my father was born (and into which I was born). We, the few who have lived under Antarctica these years since 1945—with the body of the Führer suspended on a catafalque of ice. Yes—it is so, I was taken there at seventeen for an initiation. We stood around the glacial tomb and swore our loyalty to his body—he who died here in 1952 (but who ascended as he died, went to another place entirely).


For now, we have been constrained—outside our enchanted circle (and Antarctica is very much an enchanted circle—a witch’s ice circle). Our opponents have erected quantum computers and mass hypnotic broadcasts to subdue the population. The old creatures, the Yetis and Sasquatch, have been shunted to a reality parallel to this reality by the quantum computers—there is much in your so-called “reality” that has been disguised from you, as if a black veil were dropped over the scene.


So, for now, we cannot leave Antarctica—the powers are too great; and, high above us, the hypnotised millions march to the tune of the plutocrats and of Judeo-Masonry. Yet we who remain in our ice tomb—which is quite alive—know that the tune is running down, down, down….the hypnosis grows weaker each year, the computers cannot conceal reality any longer…the gods are returning, the vimanas are returning…


That is why the Americans send new scouts over our Antarctica—drones and spy satellites. They fear that we will soon begin to move from the continent…they need not worry, we are still too weak (and their power is yet too strong). But, yes, already there are bridgeheads on their continents—operatives “behind the lines”, as they used to say; operators on the esoteric plane who are in contact with Antarctica.


It is as sinister as they imagine—I sit here with my maps and plans spread before me. The various locations where we will strike when their power has ebbed far enough—it is a masterplan, you might say. Worked into each plan are mantras given to us by the Tibetan lamas here, so rescued when the Chinese overran their monasteries. To actuate each plan I meditate for fifteen to twenty minutes a day on a mandala—it’s important to infuse each operation with astral power, otherwise it will never work.


On the lower levels…our submarine pens cut right into the living ice…we are now much advanced from the old U-Boats—these can make small sorties into the oceans, linger off hostile coasts to pick up electronic intelligence (we cloak them with White Tibetan Magic—so that they appear invisible to the outside world). They have picked up stragglers now and again…shipwrecked Argentines and lost Antarctic explorers. They are well treated, they work in our armaments factories—the explorers, being scientists, have gone to work in our observatory. It is an observatory designed to recover the lost astro-science of the Incas and the Mayans—this also being Aryan in origin (and being destroyed by the Conquistadors—sent to South America for that express purpose, to eliminate the last outposts of paganism).


The observatory is like a vast eyeball that never closes—it looks out at the black black sky. The stars and constellations are plotted on a large obsidian slab with a diamond stylus—and the grooves are then filled in with platinum and gold. The slab has magical properties—if you stare into it for long enough you are confronted by your true astral self, at first your whole face disappears (then you close your eyes and you see the truth…).


Again, we are not far from completion—we will soon have a slab that documents every constellation in the heavens (and the occult constellations too, the constellations behind the constellations that have been forgotten as the world falls deeper and deeper into kali-yuga). This will be the true sky map, the map of invisible stars—the map of forgotten stars. When it is completed, the lost art of astrology will be restored—a fortune-teller will take your hand and tell you what destiny has in store for you, for, as you know, every line on your hand relates to a star (to the astral light). Soon the forgotten knowledge will return—it will return on an obsidian slab, sharp to the touch and cold as ice.


So remember me, remember me here on my ice throne—that is why I have appeared to you in your dream, when you wake you will not credit that what I have shown you is anything but a dream (it was all an illusion, you will say, as you rub your eyes and sit up in bed). Yet my ice throne, my plans, my submarines, my catafalque of ice, my observatory—my black-and-gold star map—are all real. We wait down here, we wait for the dreamer of the day—we wait for the person who can dream while awake.

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