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Parsifal Unvelied: Amfortas, King of the Grail

Amfortas, King of the Grail

Beloved woman born for the best, devilish woman fashioned for the abyss, fallen pearl from the throne of the Lord, ineffable fiery rose grown in Eden and stripped by infernal hands, enchanted swan with an alabastrine neck, singing amidst an immodest bacchanalia… how much good you have done, and… how much evil! Oh, God of mine! 

Yet… and this is more accurate, let us now talk a little about the King Amfortas, successor of the elder Titurel, he who with much prudence frustrated the demon’s cunnings…

The legend of the centuries states—and this is known by our forefathers—that the good king had to suffer the indescribable…

So, bless my soul, oh God! Everything was because of women, or because of that woman, she, the original devilish one, the prototype of perdition and downfall, whom not even Amfortas himself, the Lord of the Grail, could resist…

onsequently, the people who go around there state that this good lord also fell into the arms of a tempestuous blonde woman whom they named Herodias, Kundry, Gundryggia, and who knows what else… 

The sovereign planned without delay to put an end to the magical enchantments of Klingsor, the evil magician; yet, what happened you now understand…

The malignant one, who, indeed, was never a meek sheep, knew how to take good advantage of such a marvelous opportunity. Thus, Klingsor, by very quietly approaching the lustful couple who were wallowing in their bed of pleasures, snatched away the sacred lance. Grasping the spear, he frightfully wounded the side of Amfortas; afterwards, mocking, he withdrew.

“…To fetch our missing spear!” the Elder Gurnemanz continues, saying, “That is for another… That task we are denied. Oh wounding, wonderful, all-holiest spear! With my own eyes I saw you wielded by unholiest hand!…” 

The elder Gurnemanz escorted the king in his return, but he was wounded in his side; the wound was burning. This is the wound of remorse that never will heal again..!

Let us recite the beautiful poem of Don Ramon del Valle Inclan:

Rose of the East

When walking, she does it with feline grace
Her whole self is filled with profound echoes,
Tales of Aladdin, her dark mouth verbalizes
Through moresque camouflages.
Her eyes black, warm, cunning,
her smile gloomy because of ancient science,
and her skirt of flowers, a breeze
of Hindu and sacred constitution.
Her hand did cut, in an easterly garden,
from the tree forbidden, the apple,
while the Serpent entwined in her bosom.
She decorates lust with a sense
that is sacred. Amidst the transparent darkness
of her eyes, the light is a whistle.