ELEVEN again. My first blog was a poem whose main subject is ELEVEN.
Yesterday ELEVEN was commemorated in Europe to mark the end of World War I , which ended on the ELEVEN hour of the ELEVENTH day of the ELEVENTH month. (Did somebody have a chronometer at hand!?). At the same time Bush presided over a ceremony at Arlington Cemetery on Veterans Day, which takes place every year on the ELEVEN hour of the ELEVENTH day of the ELEVENTH month. Guess what time it started? At 11 minutes after 11 a.m.

ARAFAT death (assassination?) on Nov. 11 was announced and covered by TV
networks around the world. (Now this impeccability is shown only by the highest MAGICIANS).

(Remember 9/11 and March 11 in Madrid?)

I have being somewhat disappointed with the level of responses that I have
received. 95 % of you engage the subject matter with an almost
Bush-voter-like-intelligence pattern. Yes I know this is insulting, but when I
revised the answers to my last blog and see that only a meager 5% understood
that it was a metaphor I can't help it.

Now here it is again my poem, hoping somebody will decipher it, and win the
PRIZE.

TO THE POPE IN WASHINGTON
(Mirum Occultum)

Nine eleven, three eleven, eleven again, eleven again,
If Bush is going out, Kerry is coming in, Skull and Bones, Skull and Bones,
Eleven again, eleven again.
Eleven is the eagle and the meaning of the Aleph,
The general number of Magic and the energy tending to change,
Eleven again, eleven again, the Magic itself.

Nine eleven, eleven again, three eleven, eleven again,
The Turkish brothers recognize the trend,
Minorities, Meditators and Magicians are the danger, the Dagger was in the Air.
Putting forward no name, I smelled the Galbanum when it was broadcast by CNN.
M, M, M, eleven again, eleven again, 33rd degrees is up for blame,
After they blow up the Spanish train.

In Sepher Sephirot is eleven, eleven is to tear, eleven is to cut, is to attack, and proud, and haughty, to conceal, and circularity of form and motion.
The Sufis are dancing, reality artificially changes,
The masses are blinded while the Kings fake their pain.
Champion of Enochian chess, 13 blocks from the White House, the secret pope awaits.
The Great Light his new religion, Novus Ordo Seclorum, The New Age.

Eleven again, eleven again, I am not a dreamy poet, I just happens to be awake.
I know what are you doing with the number, eleven again, eleven again
Playing with Tetragrammaton’s eleventh key, House of Dead, Mass Slaughter, again, again and again.
We will remember the Number of Sins, the Tower, stop Directing the Power of Air
Minorities, Meditators, Magicians, polarities is not IT, 33rd stop the elevens, the
blood and pain, in secret there is no power, in spontaneity lies the gate.

By: J.A.L. D1