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In the stillness of a snowbound night. Brilliant white flares drift earthwards. The young men await the onslaught. The runes are cast. Silhouettes of pain. Beauty torn apart. To caress the pure snow. The rose slowly drowns, alone in the night. The ultimate sacrifice. Forged in blood. Belief is strength and they never wavered.

The plaintive sound of a trumpet drifts on the icy air. Our idols are dust. But the dream has not diminished. Amongst a life of banality, betrayal and inevitable decay; a search for meaning, a longing for, ‘The World That Summer'. The pillared halls of silence are filled with an overwhelming sense of sadness and despair. The soundtrack to solitude.

Tears fall, echoing in dark pools. A bell is shattered. Punishment begins. The angel weeps to be so tortured. In sweat and pain the ritual blows are placed. On command! The kiss of agony. Bloody petals blossom. Our first rehearsal ‘for love and for death'. The rose must be taken in its prime and severed with steel. ‘Honour the Blade!'

Further words would be futile. Dead leaves scattered among your dreams. Listen and understand. The ‘Heilige Tod'.

‘Hath not the Soul descended Upon those that are Living....'

J.R.P. 1987 - an extract taken from a leaflet accompanying initial copies of “Brown Book” sent to France

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