And now spring comes to the starved and blackened land
where the tailless abominable angel has spent his passion;
dead roots are twined through the bones of a broken hand;
now death, not Schiaparelli, sets the fashion.
In the twentieth century of the Christian era
the news-hawk camera man, no Botticelli,
walks on this stricken earth with Primavera,
and Europe cries from the heart of her hungry belly.
Ten flattened centuries are heaped with rubble,
ten thousand vultures wheel above the plain;
honour is lost and hope is like a bubble;
life is defeated, thought itself is pain.
But the bones of Charlemagne will rise and dance,
and the spark unquenched will kindle into flame.
And the voices heard by the small maid of France
will speak yet again, and give this void a Name.
Dimitri Has Left Us: A Look Back at Guy Mouminoux’s Journey
Is the US Following the British Empire’s Road to Collapse?
Remembering Rudyard Kipling (December 30, 1865-January 18, 1936)
Remembering Roy Campbell (October 2, 1901–April 22, 1957)
Gianfranco de Turris — Julius Evola: Filozof a kouzelník ve válce (1943-1945)
Fondations du XXIème siècle: Le Siècle de 1914 de Dominique Venner
Wait ‘Till the Sun Shines, Nellie
A Yankee Poet in Greenwich Village