Land of Dreams

People get lost in myths and from there, they get lost in the nebula of history. Countries come and go, cultures are lost, people became legends and history becomes folk tales that are not even whispered by the fire in cold nights anymore.

In an age of fingertip technology, we lost the heart of the lands we belong to. And sometimes, as the clock strikes midnight, a calling raises in the heart, a calling unheard, only felt, that one would want to understand... The call of the land and of history lost. It is the hour when the legends creep in the blood filling your heart with a longing without name.

Someone told me yesterday that no feeling is more deep then sitting down in a long forgotten place and listening to the stories the land tells. No stories that can be put in name, just Fata Morgana of dreams and half said words in languages lost.

Because like people, languages are born, evolve and die. Sometimes it is possible to hear them again out of the dusty covers of a book, but other times, no books are left. And then you can only search for a lost language in the matrices of another.

I live very far away from the land of my ancestors. And yet, with half a planet between the land and me, I can still hear the calling of a lost past. And gods without remembered myths come back, fleetingly through my blood. An intimate knowledge that is not knowledge.

Here is Bendis, the goddess adopted by Greece. A spear in one hand, a goblet of blessings in another, the eagle flying high above the white horse... So alive and yet so forgotten. High magic and the Moon, sacred unions and hunting... She whispers, but her words are unheard, only the awe remains as she passes through. I am yours, Mother, I am yours, Daughter...

Behind her, Gebeleizis follows... So young and beautiful, so handsome and so powerful is the god with golden hair! Arch and spear, eagle on the shoulder and tall on his horse, the god whispers of the connection between Sky and Earth, between war, life and death, because he is the supreme god.

Behind him yet is Derzelas, the god that talks of healing and abundance, of that which is lost only to be found again. And Istia of fire, so adopted and remembered by the Greeks! And Zamolxis, the one that taught us that to die is to be reborn again and that our very souls are immortal! And here is Apollo the Hyperborean, all sun and golden looks saying how he came to be from the Pontus Euxinus. And here is Dionysus, that who teaches Ecstasy...

But all are lost and only few remember yet after millennium and millennium. Some forgotten, some remembered by other people... They sing the song that started in the Carpathians, the song of the White Wolf, Pelasgians and Aryans, the ones that from Carpathians went to India and Greece, to Asia Minor and shook hands with the Celts. The song of the Hyperboreans from the Danube and Carpathians...

Are only dreams of a land lost in myth and legend. And in ballads sometimes, by other names and other deeds they are remembered like the sacred signs still imprinted on the gates... The people are gone, the language maybe lost, the history shrouded in myth... But the land remains, forever alive, telling stories if only one can really listen...