Hieros Gamos (ἱερός γάμος): My Song of Dignity 

Nigredo

In transpersonal karma, our spirits fused with the One,

we began without a wall (which they call ego).

Poverty, luxury, plenty crossed us like weather,

and we kept no idol (εἴδωλον).

Let it be conceded: the need for a roof is a fact, yet not a master.

Therefore no such ludicrous contract was signed

with flesh, mind, or spirit.

I postulate, here from the threshold of the underworld:

in this collective consciousness,

better the body dreaming itself into decay than the spirit a servant.

Have you ever seen them, those with hollow eyes?

Terrifying compromises. Let us call it the new Leviathan.

The past spoke: anhedonia came, grey and scentless;

its penury was the teacher.

The Zeigarnik hour, unfinished, still burned in the chest.

A de Chirico piazza: long shadows, an empty labyrinth-square,

and on this plane too many working, homeless souls

cross it, owned by no clock.

Albedo

Then the impostors came, merchants of souls, dressed as friends.

They loved the shelter, never the one sheltering;

in their minds a gift was already a trade.

What is given leaves the hand without a receipt,

but the hand needs a door.

The archontic archetypes whispered: everyone has a price.

Affection was placebo while it fed them, nocebo when it stopped.

Those born walled must solve, then coagulate.

We had nothing to dissolve, so the Work ran backward:

not demolition but masonry,

the first edge, the first self.

One fear, admitted:

the long fight for justice left this life unfinished,

the labor, the planet, the beautiful people still barely met.

Citrinitas

The treadmill of pleasure turns without us.

Hedonic adaptation: the Diderot robe wants a house,

the house wants a life.

We walk slowly against the velocity of wanting,

kneeling neither to the cup that measures the sea

nor to the hand that pays.

Apatheia: a heart no longer rented.

Eudaimonia: unbuyable.

Dawn yellows the vessel, and the dark is named.

Individual karma is a ledger:

a self made of its debts and harvests.

Transpersonal karma is a river:

no keeper, no private balance,

a current older than birth,

carrying what no single name earned or owes.

Collective, it is a people's river, the living and the dead,

their wounds, their unspent gifts,

borne for the many by those born unwalled.

A ledger needs a keeper. A river needs a bed.

Rubedo

The sacred marriage:

not two bodies bound by paper, not a treaty of gods,

but king and queen within, the river and its banks,

the one without edges and the one who learned to draw them.

Money is a name we lend to worth;

worth withdraws from that currency.

Neither cheap nor dear: personhood is not for sale.

A dignity that was never a faculty outlives the mind.

What moves through us is unowned,

a holy love, free and unafraid:

this our ekklesia,

the called-out, given, never sold.