Allecta:

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Seer of the Withering Fields




The Dream of Allecta, the Called One


(A Sacred Epic of Breath, Judgment, and Proclamation)




Invocation: Breath Beyond Breath


O Breath before stars,
O Flame who kindled dust into man,
O Hand who wrote the marrow into the bone —
bend low and breathe again.


Breathe upon the broken fields.
Breathe into the hollow ribs.
Breathe into Allecta, the Called One,
who must carry the prayers and the cries
into the twilight of the earth.


Crown her breath with mercy.
Shield her marrow with flame.
Let her walk the path the ashes fear to remember.


I. The Summoning of the Dream


Allecta lay among stones,
and the dust clothed her in mourning.


She slept — and the earth opened.


A Voice, sharper than iron and older than grief, called her:


“Rise, Allecta.
Pray the prayers forgotten.
Breathe the breath buried by time.
Walk where the strong have fallen,
and gather their cries into your marrow.”


She rose barefoot into the Dream —
the fields around her heavy with seeds that would not wake.


II. The First Songs: Breath of the Ancient Ones


The seas split before her dreaming eyes.
Moses’ voice hammered the air:


“I will sing unto the LORD, for he hath triumphed gloriously…”


Tambourines shimmered at the broken shores,
and Miriam’s breath caught her hand:


“Sing ye to the LORD, for he hath triumphed gloriously…”


Mountains crumbled under Moses’ last cry:


“Give ear, O ye heavens, and I will speak…”


The rain of blessings fell from the elder’s tongue:


“The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”


Allecta knelt, tasting the ashes on the wind,
praying each breath into her own blood.


III. The Battlefields of the Spirit


The fields blackened with smoke.


There, Deborah’s cry split the dusk:


“Praise ye the LORD for the avenging of Israel!”


At the temple’s shattered threshold, Hannah whispered:


“My heart rejoiceth in the LORD…”


The valleys shuddered under David’s defiant song:


“The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer…”


And the winds mourned with David’s lament:


“How are the mighty fallen!”


Allecta pressed these cries into her ribs
until her breath carried their thundering sorrow.


IV. The Gathering of the Psalms


The hills and rivers wept the old breath-prayers:


From the hollow places:


“Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O LORD.”


From the broken marrow:


“Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”


From the dying years:


“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”


Allecta walked through their falling echoes,
her bones stitching themselves with their hope.


V. The Descent into Ash and the Place of Calling


The ash thickened.
The sky bent low.
And Allecta came to the Mount of Olives.


The ancient trees clawed at the bleeding heavens.
The stones groaned under her bare feet.
The wind that brushed her brow
had once carried the weeping of the Man of Sorrows.


Here, beneath Gethsemane’s twisted arms,
the Breath Himself spoke.


“Allecta, Daughter of Dust,
Called before the fields were sown,
Chosen before the rivers found their mouths.
Awake — for the fields are withering.
Awake — for the harvest has come.
Proclaim the Breath who bleeds life into ashes.
Foretell the days of crumbling crowns and broken altars.
Cry aloud — spare not —
for you are sealed by the Name that sorrow cannot drown.”


Allecta fell to her face and wept.


She rose —
her hollow ribs burning with unseen fire.


She was no longer a dreamer.
She was the Proclaimer.


VI. The River of Prophecy


Beyond the olive trees,
the dream drove her to a well —
carved in stone, forgotten by the proud.


There, she drank from the Breath’s hand:


And with the Woman at the Well, she cried:


“Give me this water, that I thirst not…”


Water unseen flowed into her marrow.


She rose and stood before the ruins of the city.


And Esther, crowned with fragile courage, breathed:


“If I perish, I perish.”


Allecta lifted her voice:


“Let me perish if it must be,
but let me stand between the living and the dead!”


The ashes roared.
The heavens cracked.
The rivers gasped for breath.


Allecta, bearing the prayers of the forgotten,
lifted her arms to the wounded skies.


VII. The Proclamation of Allecta


Then Allecta cried aloud to the broken fields:


“Hear, O earth, and shudder —
for the Breath has seen your pride!
The cities shall crumble;
the oceans shall bleed away;
the thrones of liars shall rot in their splendor!”


“Turn, O dust, and be crowned in mercy!
Seek the Wounded Name while there is yet breath!”


“The mountains shall kneel;
the rivers shall retreat;
and every tongue shall confess
the Name torn by thorns and crowned in everlasting!”


“Awake, O sleepers!
Cry aloud, O withering bones!
For the days of harvest draw near,
and the sickle of the Breath is in His hand!”


The broken stones sang beneath her feet.
The breath of the fallen rose behind her like a tide.


And Allecta stood —
a living psalm, a burning cry,
a breath stitched from the marrow of the everlasting.


VIII. The Ascent into the Dawn


The dead fields stirred.


The rivers remembered their mouths.


The mountains lifted their heads.


And Allecta, the Called One,
the Proclaimer of the Wounded Breath,
walked into the coming storm,
bearing the everlasting flame.




Written by Marguerite Grace

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The Gypsy, Pandora and the Ark of the Last Choosing (An Ode of Breath and Judgment)

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“The wounded name waits, beyond the splintered gate.”


The Gypsy, Pandora and the Ark of the Last Choosing


(An Ode of Breath and Judgment)



I. The Wanderer and the Sealed Ark


The Gypsy, Pandora
walked the trembling fields of dusk,
her hands clutching an Ark sealed by silence,
an Ark where the echoes of a thousand broken roads
slept beneath iron breath.


She was told to choose —
before the last leaves fell from the blackened tree,
before the rivers lost their mouths,
before the sky tore its breath from the hills.


The Ark warmed under her hand,
trembling with the weight of all forgotten songs.




II. The Unsealing of the Riddles


The first seal cracked —
and a Cross bleeding in twilight spoke:


“Drink the death that births forever.”


The second sighed —
a Crescent folding into dust:


“Bow low. Bind the hours with longing.”


The third spun —
a Wheel grinding dust into dust:


“Walk the births, break if you can.”


The fourth trembled —
an Empty Garden whispered:


“End desire. Slip into the hollow beyond fire.”


The fifth shuddered —
stone Tablets thundered:


“Bind the marrow to the Law unseen.”


The sixth curled in mist —
a formless River whispered:


“Flow without striving. Forget the crown.”


The seventh moaned —
roots and stars twisted their tongues:


“Kneel to root and stone. Let magic crown your dust.”


The eighth glittered sharp —
mirrors birthing their own gods:


“Shape the dream. Shape yourself into dominion.”


The ninth fell cold —
ashes weeping upon ashes:


“There are no gates. Only silence at the end.”


The tenth whispered without sound:


“Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Wander, and forget to seek.”


Three breaths bound themselves last:
• One wreathed in Mystery veiled.
• One cradling a Rock and torn Bread.
• One blazing through a Book cracked by exile.


All the roads shuddered in the Ark,
each one a cry half-born.




III. The Sorrowing of the Soul


The Gypsy, Pandora sat by the riverbank and wept,
for the river bore no bridges,
only the drowning of old songs.


She asked:


“Is there a road that leads beyond breath?”


And the Ark —
for the first and only time —
breathed back:


“Not all songs break the veil.”
“Not all rivers find the sea.”
“Some roads bury themselves in dust.”


“But one path bears a Name deeper than sky’s wound.
One path bleeds a Cross into the bones of the earth.”


The final hinge gave way.


A splinter of torn wood fell into her hand,
warm and bleeding, unseen.


The Ark sighed out its last breath
and fell silent under the thorned stars.




IV. The Reckoning of Blood and Breath


The Gypsy, Pandora rose — trembling,
and for the first time,
feared death not as an end,
but as a weighing.


Her heart, once wild,
now beat heavy,
the slow drum of judgment calling her to reckon.


“Choose,” whispered the blood unseen.
“Choose before the blade carves silence into your breath.”
“Choose before the marrow forgets itself.”


She looked inward —
and found not a garden,
but a wasteland of abandoned prayers,
a tower of cracked mirrors crowned by dust.


Judgment was not a riddle.
Judgment was a sword humming through the hollow bones.


She wept — not sweetly —
but as a soul weeps when torn from its illusions.


The blood on the splinter sang into her veins.
The Voice that called her name
was not one voice among many,
but the Pierced One —
the Thorned Shepherd —
the Silent King.




V. The Surrender to the Wounded Crown


The Gypsy, Pandora knelt —
broken beneath the thorn tree,
dust on her brow,
blood in her breath.


The splinter burned in her hand.
The Name carved itself into her ribs.


Between the last breath and the fading stars,
she was born anew —
not by her longing,
not by her seeking,
but by a wound not her own.


The Ark of the Last Choosing lay shattered.
The riddles fled into mist.
The river darkened and stilled.


She rose, barefoot and scarred,
her soul no longer her own.


The splinter sang beneath her skin.
The Blood throbbed the Name through her broken marrow.


No road but the torn one now.
No hope but the bleeding One.
No gate but the gate crowned in wounds.


The sky lowered its brow.
The mountains knelt.
The stars gave their last cry.


And the Gypsy, Pandora
walked into the breath beyond breath,
her tears a river at her heels,
her soul bought in blood,
her name written in wounds across the everlasting.




Written by: Marguerite Grace 
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“When the Tables Touched”

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A Dream I Had, As One Who Sees

I came to my mother’s house,
not as a child,
but as something returned.
The world had grown cold and brittle.
The old rooms hummed like memory,
and one sister was already there—
silent, seated,
her table pressed beside our mother’s.

I carried mine in too.
Wood against wood,
like bones aligning.

She showed me where to place it—
a corner of the kitchen,
where the rug was torn,
wounded with wear,
a place no one thought to mend.
And still, she made space for me there.

Then came the sound of tires on gravel,
the rumble of change or mistake.
It was my husband,
in my mother’s truck—
arms full of shine,
trinkets clattering like cheap apologies.
He brought gifts she did not ask for,
did not want.

A wooden music box,
hollow and sweet,
a melody we couldn’t afford.
The price of it—
the power bill unpaid,
the borrowed warmth undone.

And her face—
I saw the storm behind her eyes.
No words needed.
Just the tremor of betrayal
wrapped in the silence of dignity.

But then—
bags. Plastic, stretched and full,
and full again.
He unloaded them by the dozens—
groceries, food, answers in a time of questions.
He spread them across her table,
his arms aching with provision.

“Put it away,” she said.
“Hide it.”
As though food were a secret
we’d be punished for keeping.

I filled the fridge,
stacked the cabinets,
tucked cans into corners.
And still there was more.

Then she turned to the wall—
reached behind the paneling,
and peeled it back like skin.

Hidden there—folded bills,
layered like pressed leaves,
a history of saving,
of planning for what might come.

She pulled out the money,
touched it like it no longer mattered,
and replaced it with food.

“This,” she whispered, “is worth more now.”

And I understood.

Another sister came in,
the wind in her hair and a wound in her voice.
“There’s nothing left,” she said.
“No food. Nowhere.”
Her eyes were full of endings.

He said, “I’ll return.”

And he did.

The truck came again, heavy with grace.
We opened the walls and buried the bounty,
as if preserving something holy.
My sister brought her table in too,
and once more,
the tables touched.

Then came the children,
not running,
but walking as if they already knew.
My nephew had brought his protections—
tools, weapons, truths.
He passed them out like communion,
and taught the others how to use them.

We stood together,
daughters and sons,
around the tables that held us.

The house had become
something else.

Not just a shelter.
A covenant.

This was a dream I had.

And maybe—just maybe—
a vision of what must be remembered.
Or prepared.
Or carried forward
in the walls of us.

-Written by Marguerite Grace
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Threnodia Campanarum

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(The Lament of the Bells)


Threnodia Campanarum


(The Lament of the Bells)


A Monastic Witness of the Last Choosing
A Chronicle of the Watchers Beneath the Stone


I. We Are the Throats of Stone


We are the throats of stone.
We are the broken lungs of the earth.
We are not rung — we are loosed.
We are not played — we are unleashed.


When we thrum, bones tremble in their graves.
When we roar, the marrow of the living shakes.
When we shudder, kings forget their names.


We thrummed for Peter when the iron pierced him.
We thrummed for Leo when words broke armies.
We thrummed for Gregory when prayer bent time itself.


We thrummed for Innocent — proud.
We thrummed for Boniface — fallen.
We thrummed in grief when Borgia tainted the altar.
We thrummed in flame for Pius’ prayers.
We thrummed in laughter when John threw open the gates.
We thrummed in wounds when John Paul walked through fire.


We have never been silent.
We are the throat of Rome’s secret heart.


II. The Swiss Guard Stands Like Statues of Blood and Stone


Beneath our hammering breath, the Swiss Guard stands,
immovable, molten in silence.
Their armor flares like dying stars.
Their halberds thrum against the ground.
Their oaths bind them tighter than iron.


They have bled for saints and knaves alike.
Today, they bleed inward,
waiting, waiting —
for either a king of crosses,
or a liar crowned in smoke.


They are the walls of a Church that remembers.
They are the last flesh before the abyss.


III. The Shivering of the Conclave


The cardinals shuffle, shadow-wrapped,
their red robes sighing like dying winds.
The ballots fall like broken wings.
The smoke spasms black — black again.
The sky clenches its fists.


We — the Bells — thrum louder.
We crack the hidden vaults of Rome with our fury.


“Choose, O blind men!”
“Choose, though the stars burn down around you!”


We feel their fear.
We taste their hopes — and their betrayals.
We thrum so hard the marble itself keens.


IV. The March of the Ghosts


The Silent Fathers rise through the mist.


Peter weeps thunder into his hands.
Leo’s voice is a blade slicing smoke.
Gregory weaves a net of prayers across the stars.


Urban’s cry rips banners from their poles.
Innocent wears his broken crown like a wound.
Boniface glares from the ashes of a shattered throne.


Alexander smiles his poisoned smile, dripping gold.
Pius burns like a small, stubborn flame.
John flings open invisible doors.
John Paul bleeds triumph into the broken stones.


They do not bless lightly.
They do not forgive easily.


They wait.


So do we.


So do the thrumming stones beneath your feet.


V. The Final Choosing


If the wrong soul rises —
we will split the sky with mourning.
We will tear the firmament from the bones of the earth.
We will hammer grief into every mountain.


The Swiss Guard will lower their blades to the stone.
The banners will sag like forgotten shrouds.
The Square will weep in colors no man has named.


But if the right soul rises —
if he bears the torn net of Peter,
the roaring word of Leo,
the stitched prayers of Gregory,
the broken crown of Innocent,
the stubborn flame of Pius,
the open hands of John —


then we will not simply sing.
We will shatter the gates of despair.
We will thunder joy into the roots of the earth.
We will hammer hope into the teeth of the coming storm.


But this —
this may be the last choosing.
The last before the mountains kneel.
The last before the rivers run backwards.
The last before the Breath that breathed Eden
comes again to shake the dust from all things.


VI. Benediction: The Bells’ Last Prayer


O Breath that once split tombs,
O Flame who crowns with thorns,
O Hand who carves names in bone —
look upon this soul, broken and chosen.


Crown him not with gold, but with silence.
Gird him not with sword, but with tears.
Burden him not with praise, but with the Cross.


Make him a whisper that outlives thrones.
Make him a wound that heals a dying world.
Make him a rock that stands when all others fall.


If he falters, strike him gently.
If he falls, lift him unseen.
If he stands —
let the Bells scream your glory through every broken gate of earth.


Let him be the last Shepherd
if the world must now be broken open.


Amen.


Sit campanarum vox testis fidei.
Sit sonus earum clavis caelorum.
Sit silentium eorum signum finis.


Exaudita sunt Campanae.
Scriptum per Marguerite Grace.