The Rite Remains

The vine remembers what the world forgets.

Roots whisper the names we carried through fire,

and every cup raised in trembling hands

is an echo of the first wild cry.

They tried to bind the god in silence,

to drown the drum beneath the church bell,

but frenzy is older than fear

and the body keeps its covenant.

We return in every age—

masked, unmasked, reborn in the wine-dark night—

for the god walks wherever breath becomes song

and desire becomes a doorway.

Call it madness, call it sin,

call it anything but what it is—

the living pulse of liberation.

Eo Evohé.

©2025 Paul Reed