The Songs of Rising

The Songs of Rising huntress hunter patriarchy the house of twigs thot

We could always imagine… but we can’t. We can only breathe and rise.

We react to elements, as our substances react to other substances. Sometimes we bend, sometimes we crash and at times we transform.

Nature can grow and grow or fail to and succumb. But in those crazy moments when the substances transform each other, there is where the two individual substances transform.

And time recycles itself. No time is marked by monsters just by events. So as substances die, others are born under the Moonlight.

And they grow within us as the Moon is fully taking this Earth as the Sacred Great Kali rises. On and on. She rises she always rises.

All the hurt we carry isn’t enough to apologize for our past. It isn’t enough for all the hurt. It isn’t enough for all the absurdity birthed into chaos. I birthed absurdity but I killed it. The songs in the forest at night do not ask for permission. They want to blade truth out of the absurdity. They know and I know now. It is a melody and rhythm combined. Hurt is the pause. And we’ve been coming forth to each other amused of course but at the same time in pain. In pessum.

The beasts sing too.


The dark forest is still dark. Hasn’t it always been?

Monsters have broken blood promises and in blood meet their demise. Circe made a wish to haunt the Huntress, but she broke down in pieces by the same bow that killed every prey before. The dark forest is always haunted. Always meeting bits of this electric horizontal system to bring meaning to his days and nights, looking mostly like a proposal. Spirits, stories, and demise. Spirits, and stories of demise. Meaning comes in scales. It’s not a “Tristan and Isolde” story, nor a meaningful myth, but a story of blood… and its genealogy of becoming or being full of nothing. Bow meets prey as meaning hits mind.

Stories turn to dead genealogical trees.

Alice and the rabbit.

The priestesses and her red hooded furies.

Is the rush of blood inside the forest’s veins true?

The masses are trees and soil, sometimes birds and fish air and fire.

But us? What is it that we are? What is it that we are left to be? A story, as all stories when predator meets prey and then discovers she is indeed the Huntress, haunting down the whole dark forest?! Why seeing it all wasn’t the first thing we asked? A rush of blood inside the veins of the forest.

Is this love?

We aren’t blind and still, we choose to believe we were but never are. The forest is haunted by haunted creatures. The predator meets prey and the Huntress kills them both in a ritual of sacrifice.

The forest is married to its darkness and I could eat all that darkness, once I was told to be afraid.

Things, souls, and time don’t stay the same but the Genesis does. Once we were told we come from nothing, that we were just a blue point in the immense universe but our fire told a different story. We all come from Genesis, the Sacred Creatix. And that is the only yearning we now have. The yearning of our blood, the yearning of our womb, the call of the Fenix, and our cries. The patriarchy built defragmentation, the upside-down system, and the horizontal system and that brought their impotence and demise. We, daughters of the Sacred Creatix have always been here and we are here to claim our land our soil, our lava, our earthquakes, because we are all that, we ain’t plastic or deformed voodoo you can order to your wishes. We are the lava, the meteors, the darkness, and its creation and we are here to bring the Sacred Creatix back and kill the era of the Hunter. He took our weapons and many unimaginable things to be taken but we are here and we are the lava. We are the knives cutting the throat of the hunter. Each cry cometh out of impotence of pain, of injustice, it is coming back with the power of seven and the Hunter knows he is surrounded. It is time for him to bow down to the soil and hand his head off. It is not revenge, but God doesn’t feel like it?

They haven’t felt the suffocation at night. They haven’t felt the pain singing perpetual stories through the forests of our skins.

They haven’t.

And that’s why we claim all pain as power, all fears as death, all suffering as extreme energy to open the portals of the Sacred Creatrix here on Earth. Who will protect you now that all walls have fallen, who will, Hunter? Who will save you now that all of your allies are dead, Hunter? Who?

I will tell you who. None. Nothing.

You are writing your demise with every step you take in every breath you think you own because you don’t. When we take our breath back you will be dead poisoned flesh like the Hydra is. The Hurricane is coming and it will take all that breathes against the Sacred MAAT down to the inferno. The Huntress has taken the branches and its creatures, the nymphs, and their cries prophesy the great returning of Sacred MAAT because all land, all water is hers and all air too. Demise, demolish and this time belongs to us, the ancient sacred priestess, the red hooded witches bowing down to the sole Creatix. We are the lava and the lava will come from the skies, from the Earth, from the water when the horizontal system dies and takes his creatures with him. We were taken our image of the self, we were taken our right to speak TRUTH abruptly and that is how we are taking what is ours back. We will curse the Hunter and its system and its creatures with every morning breath and we will welcome the Goddess with every cry which was meant to be silenced. And the wild will cry and curse with us. The wild will curse each defragmentation each deformation each minute of the existence of the Hunter and its cursed being. We will make the darkness swallow the Hunter and we will reign and reign under the kingdom of the Sacred MAAT. We will forever reign because we have the Immortal Mother protecting us and the Hunter has no Mother so there is none to protect him. We are not the outsiders we are the future songs of salvation and Hunter’s permanent castigate! Earth will disappear to Hunter’s feet and the soil will swallow his allies to the underground of Hell.

Spit by spit we become the serpentine rising and welcome the ancient Dragon Fire within this Earth’s gates. Who has to die will let them die and fire will rise and we will rise where we once burned and thought ourselves inappropriate. 

Never forget you are power and as we cut The Hunter’s energy our curses will demolish his system and absorb him to perpetual pain.

We all sing and spit curses as we rise and The Hunter dies.

* The Hunter refers to the Patriarchy, to the crusaders and Crusades killing women in the name of Patriarchy.


This is by guest author Ina Gjata

Ina Gjata is a Moon lover, journalist, art critic, painter, life lover. Passionate about the wild feminine and wild creatures. She doesn’t do well with system rules, regulations, and lies. A born rebel being, she believes real truth is inside us all and that writing is a piece of the great truth, meant to be told, and manifested.


This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Creative Commons License
This work by The House of Twigs / Author of Article is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.