A dissertation in hope based upon the Shakespearean Sonnet No. 18, more popularly known as the “The Darling Buds of May”, but which I interpret, for the purposes of those who are suffering today and seeking self-empowerment, as the “The Daring Buddies of Might!”
“Whether homeless in America or starving on the savage German ‘social minimum’, we die not by degrees, but by carefully weighed fractions of economic leverage scaled in a brutally calculated manner to inspire fear in those who still work until they collapse in exhaustion. It is vile larceny on a grand scale; and should your generation not rise up and hang these evil bastards for their parasitic crimes, your children and your grandchildren will piss on your graves.”
The forest was of common heritage, and all who journeyed thereunto took upon them not the slightest notion that all the trees and richly luxuriant, unending foliage of grasses, herbs and flowers, the height of which held from the prude of mind the passionate whispers of lovers entwined in sweet embrace, and which offered unto themselves of its own greenish succus a remedy for every ailment known to Man, was bequeathed by God.
The forest belonged to no man in particular and everyone in general. To even countenance otherwise would have occurred to none, for such were, and are, the Eternal Laws of Nature; though neither a man of means nor a blushing milkmaid would have considered such a question worthy of anything but a nonsense born of the most fantastical of notions. The world was ours: the sodden earth beneath our feet and the starry skies that captured our gaze as we slept, on warm evenings, on the rooftops of the little tumble-down cottages from whence neither a soul was troubled nor a spirit left untended. Men and women loved one another as equals. There was little in the way of sorrow and no pain could match the love of the Common People.
There, in the middle of the forest, stood the tallest and most magnificent of trees, its branches stretching right up into the Heavens, and the fruit of which was as perennially ripe and as sweetly fragrant as its variety of freely given delicacies, which, when once plucked, were replenished in such abundance that the children of all the villages that nestled the forest like coddling siblings, hastened by jolly-faced parents tardy of frame, yet their voices rasping with joy as the patter of tiny feet on the wings of laughter and giggles went out to harvest, could be heard from the Black Mountain in the East. The Tree of Love gave freely of itself, and not one man or woman took more than he or she required.
In those days there was a madman, a recluse, who distilled spirits from elderberries and spoke ungraciously of terrible, unimaginably forbidding things. He was perceived as old and foolish because he was much given over to warnings and none paid him much heed because it was said that he was crazed in his ways, befriended strangers with discordant beliefs, consorted with frivolous maidens, entertained wild ideas, was given to grief beyond all human endurance; but, because he entertained the children with his tales of wild prophecy by the dying embers of the encampment fire and left rivulets of mirth in the eyes of their elders before they chased away the moths from their habitats in preparation for sleep, they gave the old eccentric fruit from the Tree of Love and parchments woven from the benevolence of their hearts upon which he may write in the ink of the Spirit of his Time.
Shortly before he died, the old man wrote a tract and laced it to the Tree of Love with a sprig of thorns, upon which he pricked his thumb. Upon the parchment, his words read:
“A time will come when the Men of the Black Mountain in the East will declare this Tree to be their own, and they shall take it by force, calling upon an Evil and Alien power that hates the hearts of all living beings to justify their Usurpation by a false creed written not so much in the blood they have already spilled, but in the blood and, yea, the very entrails of innocents yet to be born. And these men, if we can yet deign to account them as such, shall call themselves the Chosen of Zion; for that is the name of the Black Mountain in the East. And of this Tree they shall make a bondage of all men, turning Night into Day, Love into Hate, Truth into Lies, Freemen into Slaves; and of all the innocent tears of the newborns clinging to the breasts of their mothers, they shall make rivers of blood and turn the very Milk of Life into a bitter poison that shall enter their hearts and rain down upon them from the highest of highs. But from my being shall come One who shall restore this Tree of Love to those who shall rightfully eat its fruits thereof, and find Life. But those who continue to steal of its produce shall die not of its taste, but of the poison that is transmutably deceptive; for it is they who boast of deception as a virtue who shall die by deception as a vice.”
The man signed his counsel in the blood that trickled from his thumb, “Esu”, and then he disappeared exactly where he stood, leaving not one trace of his being other than the form of a man fallen in the shape of an outstretched cross.
And when a little child, who had been guided to the Tree by a star in the North Sky that had appeared at the moment a wolf’s howl had awakened him from the clutches of his slumbering mother, knelt at the cross in the ground that had subsumed the Old Man ‘Esu’, he said: “One day you shall rise and save my people from the Black Mountain in the East, the evil men of Zion; for while others laughed, I cried; while others scoffed, I paid heed; while others scorned you as a madman, I loved you as the wisest of the Wise. I shall take unto me your very Spirit and remain vigilant, fighting your fight, living your humility in each and every man and woman I meet in my journey through the aeons.”
The child, who has no name, and who, having lain in the shape of the Cross left by Esu, fled the village from whence he came, and lives amongst us even unto this very day, though no records or sophisticated biometric impositions, despite their best attempts, shall ever betray his whereabouts.
A hue and cry arose at the first dawn of light. A man had died and a child was missing. The foresters and villagers from all around formed despatches of men on horseback and rode to the north, the south and the west. But few dared approach the Black Mountain in the East. Only those who tended to the Tree conspired with one another and said: “Let us send emissaries to the Men of Zion, for we, knowing that they are evil, must have had a right hand hidden in the garment that signals their misdeeds, and, surely this is of their own machinations.”
But the Men of Zion, being cunning and of a duplicitous breed, required no emissaries; for it was they who had connived at the death of Esu, and their regents had already learned that the Good Folk were willing to parley. They befriended most assuredly those who had established themselves as guardians of the Tree of Love and bestowed them with favours and riches, wealth and privilege.
The Circle of Power began to close. The Men of Zion and their cohorts invented something new: Religion, and its mendaciously avaricious back rider, psychic parasitism.
The Tree of Love, from which all natural bounty was available to Man, became a symbol and an emblem of commerce. For every piece of fruit that was once freely available to those who hungered now became a loaned commodity subject to interest. Instead of taking what was yours as of right, that one piece of fruit had to be returned two-fold, or in kind, which, at first, translated in the surrender of unrelated produce, and then, later, in the sale of labour or the promissory endowed in fiat currency borrowed from others who purported to own similar ‘Trees of Love’.
The Good Folk complied, for, by now, Kings were set above them and legislatures and exchequers were appointed to enforce the rules of usury: bureaucratic rules that severely abridged those things Man is entitled to partake of that which God had bequeathed him as of right. Rules which ensure that only the owners of the Tree of Love are given more than their due by lending out at interest that which is not rightfully theirs. Rules that require punitive levels of taxation and trade surcharges that justify war against other villagers living in tenements halfway across the vastly forested globe.
Every economic crisis that has led to despairing suicides and broken families, every war that has ripped from men and women their limbs and their lives, every genocide perpetrated against a specific racial grouping, every depression that has sent millions to their deaths in starvation, ever slight and humiliation inflicted on every man, woman and child alive today because they cannot afford the very basics Mother Nature gifted to them as a right to life has been the deliberately planned outcome of a small psycho-social cult of anti-humans who have commandeered for themselves the fruits of the Tree of Love.
The Creator gave you and I, and all of those foresters, the God-given right to live by the sweat of our brows: tilling the soil to fruition, planting seeds, reaping the harvest of honest endeavour, storing wisely a third of the grain, caring for our fellows by planning intelligently together, and surviving as human beings without encumbrance to a Satanic world system obsessed with creating profits out of manufactured shortages facilitated by means of Zionist-Temple casino capitalism.
Usury (that is the ‘legally enforced’ extraction of a greater, often more punitive return on the original loan) is a moral sin, and is strictly prohibited by God. The underlying principles that enforce this prohibition are fully elucidated not only in Christian, Judaic, Muslim and Buddhist precepts, but in practical legislative statutes that precede the rule of King William the First of England.
In pre-medieval times, those who practised usury, whom we now know as loan sharks, were subject to the penalty of death by hanging. Each and every banker in your high street, no matter how meek and mild he or she may be, is a criminal and a blasphemer, participating not only in the impoverishment of humanity, but, ultimately, in the destruction of all life on this planet we call ‘Earth’. Every banker is a murderer.
Far be it for me to suggest that you should exercise your God-given duty to summarily execute the Pan-Am-smiling robot who counts out your worthless fiat dollars, euros, or pounds sterling at the bank ledger. For they, in their ignorance, have fallen for the scam as much as you have. That dollar, pound or euro note you exchange for an equally worthless product is smeared with the blood of children killed by Zionist munitions or is tainted with the sweat of a child who may have died in providing you with the garbage you consume.
While the self-aggrandising servants of the Zionist ultra-rich and the capitalist Pigs of War are enforcing the wholesale confiscation of everything working and middle class people have slaved for ever since they entered, indentured as slaves, this evil materialist world, such as insurance-guaranteed pensions and unemployment benefits now subject to wantonly brutal cuts, they do not, for one moment, consider such atrocities as anything other than “business as usual”. Their ears are gleefully sealed to the cries of a billion voices of despair.
Whether homeless in America or starving on the savage German ‘social minimum’ (Hartz IV), we die not by degrees, but by carefully weighed fractions of economic leverage scaled in a brutally calculated manner to inspire fear in those who still work until they collapse in exhaustion. It is vile larceny on a grand scale; and should your generation not rise up and hang these evil bastards for their parasitic crimes, your children and your grandchildren will piss on your graves.
You have been robbed. Not once, but a million times over. Where, forgive me, is your fucking outrage? You are not committing any crime by refusing to repay a loan with interest. On the contrary, should you do so, you are spitting in the face of God Almighty!
Do you have any idea how your Creator, who, with compassion in his heart, provided you with the Tree of Love really feels for your having allowed the usurers to derive immoral income from the fruits of his original design? Does it not occur to you that your participation or acquiescence in this astonishing crime against humanity contributes to the culling of your own genetic stock and the despoiling of the health of all young people the world over?
Can you not look deep down inside of your own self-obsessed heart, and ask yourself: “If I am more than the sum total of myself and live with, for, from and amongst my own fellow human beings, their interests being indivisible from mine, is it not my duty to be, finally, a real human being, and say loud and clear: I’m as mad as fucking hell, and I’m not going take this shit anymore!”?
Is there not one ounce of humanity in you that somehow compels you to arraign or assist in the arrest and legal execution of psychopathic, profiteering, anti-humans, such as Tony Blair, George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George H.W. Bush, Lord Goldsmith, Geoff Hoon, Benjamim Netanyahu, Barack Obama, Queen Elisabeth, Lloyd Blankfein, Shimon Peres, Donald Rumsfeld, Jack Straw, Angela Merkel, Ursula von der Leyen, George Soros and a whole barrage of other mentally unhinged war mongers and Zionist psychopaths in tow to the banking cartels that rejoice over every public subsidy made to cover their own economic scams and catastrophes, their fascist investments in the armaments industry, their ‘welfare’ eugenics programmes and their monopoly on mass death and global genocide?
Is there nothing I can say to convince you that it is morally incumbent upon you to fight for your fellow citizens against a prevailing evil the likes of which we have never before encountered by at least raising your fist in anger and taking back that which is rightfully yours? Are there none among you sufficiently skilled in the expeditious hitching of a hangman’s knot or the construction of rapidly mobile ‘just-in-time’ gallows?
You don’t need a third-class diploma in economics to rally your neighbourhood behind a tax strike or a banking and product boycott. You don’t need to be a survivalist fanatic to begin an informal barter and trade system within your own community and help organise your local fellows to participate in off-the-grid-schemes. You don’t need to be a fancy lawyer to interpret your constitutional rights and file suit against usurers for theft of public monies.
You don’t have to be reminded that the Child who subsumed himself in the figure of the fallen man, and who will rise once more to be your King, is YOU?
Reclaim the Tree of Love, my friends, eat plentifully, and share all that God gave you as your natural right to personal and social sovereignty. It’s not yours for the asking. Permission will be denied. If you wish to regain that which is rightfully yours, you must be prepared to fight.
For how much longer will you submit to rape and pay the Beast interest on the despoliation of the fruits of your being?
Michael James, an English republican patriot and Gnostic Christian, is a blacklisted former freelance journalist resident in Zionist-occupied Germany since 1992 with additional long-haul stays in East Africa, Poland and Switzerland. He advocates a Leaderless Resistance to destroy the Soviet European Union and prays for a free and independent England, shorn of all alliances with the EU, UK, NATO, the UN, WTO, IMF, Israel and any other treacherous international cabal or entity.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 18 — By William Shakespeare