A transforming epiphany
Once again, I have a surreal multimedia spectacle. It's about a rather insignificant person searching for meaning who falls into the clutches of a very special religious community. He tries to escape and experiences, let's say, an unexpected transformation.
1st Song
[Spoken]
Now hear my words from the darkness,
born not in palaces,
not in the glory of kings,
but from the gray dust of everyday life,
where the hours slip away like sand.
[Intro]
Gray Monday, cold clock, neon flickers.
Donald Zwingli, third of his name,
no king, no prophet, just a man with questions
no one wants to hear.
[Verse]
Work is an abyss, a torment like Sisyphus.
He, the underdog, at the mercy of his cruel boss.
His high-born master of countless office drones.
Proud as the lord of the shadows, clever as a coke-snorting gorilla.
Donald's life: empty like a pensioner's refrigerator at the end of the month.
Only his account is well-filled with savings from years of toil.
[Chorus]
And the heart thirsts for meaning,
which no god and no paycheck can give.
His soul: hungry for anything—no matter what.
[Bridge]
So he went to those who promised eternal salvation,
who preached with fiery words about the heavenly kingdom of the righteous,
who distributed the sweet opium of religion to the hopeless.
To her, the prophetess, the high priestess, the anointed one of the God.
She questioned him in the spirit of the Lord and with a divine eye for financial details.
“You are chosen—you, the invisible one,” said the prophetess with flattering words, “you are the spark that darkness fears!”
[Chorus]
With a wink, the Lord said: “An easy chair to fill in the choir, a donation account on two legs, a willing fool.”
[Verse 2]
He gets caught in the net, stumbles over faces in black,
a stream of lights, songs
and the mistress's voice, sweet as poison:
“You are seen, brother. You are recognized.”
His heart pounds, finally someone who recognizes him.
Who understands his true worth.
[Chorus]
O Zwingli, son of naivety born of narcissism,
enter the circle where shadows pray, where tongues of fire sing truth,
and every doubt devours itself.
[Bridge]
He goes there, he sits down, the temple burns with voices.
Candles, banners, glances like spears—and there: her.
The Lord's anointed, dark and shining,
with looks that devour whole men.
She smiles with the eyes of a hungry python and speaks to him.
“You are chosen – you, Donald, who are pure in faith!”
And suddenly he feels great, he feels needed,
he feels like... more.
[Outro]
His name is called, to holy baptism,
“Drink, O chosen one, the cup of Jehovah. Follow the voice that frees you from the ego. Take the oath!”
His voice fails him, at the gracious, greedy smile of the high priestess.
But in that moment he believes: The years of nothingness were preparation.
The dust from clouds of banality was seed.
His heart a battlefield—and he victorious in faith.
No longer a nobody, a servant of God, immortal, invincible.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink: “You are now part of the song. A slave to your mistress, body and soul!”
2nd Song
[Intro]
And the Prophetess spoke with a tongue like a whip to her flock:
“Open your hearts and your purses, for what is earthly glitter worth!”
And her blazing eyes struck the kneeling servant of God, Zwingli.
[Verse]
“I vow to donate a thousand Esperanto dollars to the holy cause,”
cried Donald, filled with sacred fervor, his mind clouded by the unholy spirit.
Thunderous applause, hands upon his shoulders—
Donald staggers, he laughs, he weeps, he feels grand.
Everything he never was is now bestowed upon him—or so he believes.
She, the Prophetess, smiles like a dark goddess at the sight of sacrificed men,
and exclaims in rapture: “Behold the Lamb of God, the chosen of the Lord!”
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“The simple fool fills the coffer, bends the knee,
and checks his brain at the cloakroom of vain phrases.”
[Bridge]
Thus ends the deceitful beginning of the end.
Donald Zwingli, the third of his name—neither full fool nor genius—
only a man who believes he finally matters.
But every ‘You are chosen’ is but a knife with a golden hilt,
and he—just another sheep to be shorn.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Just another dimwit, forgotten by Heaven and bought cheap by Hell.”
[Verse 2]
So he is bound in chains of his own forging,
not to fame, nor gods, but to words darker than night.
Now a player in the drama of the realm of shadows.
And voices from the sea of darkness whisper:
“This is but the beginning. At the table of the chosen,
where no gods feast, but dark prophets devour souls like sacrificial flesh.”
[Bridge]
The hall trembles—no Amen, only screams.
The Queen of Darkness stands before them:
a breath of Mussolini, a roar like Hitler,
and every glance declares: You are dust.
She strikes, she blesses, she kisses, she crushes—
and the sheep give thanks for the butcher’s blade.
“Cleanse yourselves in fire, give your gold—
only he who bleeds shall be redeemed!”
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“He who will not bleed shall feel the lash,
the heavenly credit card of purgatory.”
[Outro]
Donald sees it, Donald knows it deep within,
yet sweet honey of toxic self-deception drips into his mind.
“Brother, you are chosen, you are the light in the darkness.”
And he nods, he smiles, forgets every doubt—
and his bank account weeps.
3rd Song
[Intro]
O atonement, O offering, O coin that rings within the chalice—
a soul leaps from the purgatorial flame.
This is the Amen that we exalt,
this is the Host of flesh and guilt.
For blessed are the mindless in poverty.
[Verse]
Now penniless is Freddy Pius—once a wealthy pensioner.
The anointed of the Lord seizes the old man, shrieks him down, spits in his face.
“Save your soul, O sinner!” cries the prophetess in divine wrath.
“Free yourself of earthly wealth, sell it, that the work of God may flourish!”
Trembling, the greybeard repents, donates his last belongings to the dark goddess.
“Cleanse yourselves in fire, give your gold—only those who bleed shall be redeemed!”
The crowd roars its bleating Hosanna; Donald claps, Donald trembles,
drunk on voyeuristic, religious ecstasy.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“An subscription model of self-made misery.”
[Bridge]
Yet when Donald’s name is spoken, his heart melts like wax.
He hands over the envelope of tithe and tribute—
one envelope, then another, ever more, ever higher.
“O pure soul, thou art truly a child of God!” declares the high priestess.
Behind her beatific smile lurks the Medusa’s grin.
And Zwingli’s account melts like snow on a summer’s day.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Apotheosis by receipt—holiness for a bank statement.”
[Verse 2]
So his account runs dry, and contrite he sinks before his goddess.
“I wish to pay, but cannot give the tithe. Forgive me, O Lady!”
“O what a sinner thou art! Thy ruin shall be thy love of gold!
Wouldst thou fall? Wouldst thou be accursed?”
An angel from the abyss, eyes aflame, tongue a whip.
He withers, pledges double tribute; he pays—
and the hands that threatened now caress.
“Praise to him who pays! Salvation to him who gives!”
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“A chosen one? Nay—a cash machine that says Amen when kicked.”
[Bridge]
Thus Donald becomes a slave of his own free will—
bound not with chains of iron, but tongues of fire
that preach and bite in one breath.
He does not lose his life, but piece by piece his very self.
And the hall sings: Cleanse yourselves in fire…
So guilt becomes offering, and offering becomes the treasure of the temple.
[Outro]
And lo: the coffers are empty, the treasuries plundered.
The chosen stands naked before the priestess of flame.
Thus begins the cataclysm—
not born of thunder, but of fraud.
4th Song
[Intro]
Thus the chosen one’s account is burnt to ash in holy zeal.
But the servants of the Lord—slaves of the Lady—know no mercy.
Only scornful eyes of pity turned to blades.
And there, upon the pulpit: the Queen of Flames,
spits fire at the faithless sinners—and gazes only at him.
[Verse]
“Woe unto the servants of Mammon! Woe unto the false brethren in sheep’s disguise!”
so thunders the high priestess in Old Testament fury.
She cries of demons, of changelings in the circle, of faces of Judas—
devils masked as saints who refuse to pay the tithe.
Donald sweats, Donald trembles; her eyes pierce into his flesh.
The faithful rejoice, and each casts, in rapture, the first stone.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“He who is bankrupt is not worth even as a doormat.”
[Bridge]
Then the anointed of the Lord proclaims the name of an apostate—
“Thomas Infidelis, son of the demon Baphomet,
reincarnation of the temple-whore Jezebel!”
And the crowd murmurs, shudders at the one who dared to leave.
For God’s wrath had struck him—in the form of an automobile,
driven by a true believer.
“Thus speaks the Lord through my fire; thus fall the demons
like withered leaves upon the wind!
Thus does the Lord smite the deserters! Thus rides wrath upon the traitors!”
And the dark goddess gifts Donald a hungry smile.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Not My work. The instrument of man-made providence
was a ’68 Ford Mustang.”
[Verse 2]
Despair prevails—he takes a loan.
A thousand chains of paper, each interest rate a nail in the flesh.
Still he believes—until even that source runs dry,
and only the whip remains.
No title, no praise, no apotheosis—
only a place within the ninth circle of hell.
Yesterday a prophet, today mere dust in the Lady’s temple.
“Woe unto the lame in faith! Woe unto the weary in giving!”
echoes the prophetess’s cry.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Only as long as you give are you loved—
but when you are empty, you are nothing.”
[Bridge]
So he stands—impoverished, indebted,
no chosen one, but a fool of false prophets,
betrayed and self-betraying.
Donald Zwingli—once the chosen—now a nothing,
a despised little sheep among sheep.
The hall roars, the leader screams,
yet within his heart a whisper asks:
“Am I but a lamb in the slaughterhouse?”
The vain dream is over; he awakens—
but wisdom is not what wakes him.
[Outro]
He crosses the world’s edge,
leaves the realm of the dark goddess—
not in storm or ocean’s roar,
not in thunder or armies’ march,
but silently, like a thief in the night.
5th Song
[Intro]
And lo, the anointed of the Lord rages in holy wrath.
How dared he, that small-minded servant, that nothing,
to flee her divine dominion.
[Spoken]
Now hear my words from the darkness,
born not in palaces,
not in the glory of kings,
but from the gray dust of everyday life,
where the hours slip away like sand.
[Intro]
Gray Monday, cold clock, neon flickers.
Donald Zwingli, third of his name,
no king, no prophet, just a man with questions
no one wants to hear.
[Verse]
Work is an abyss, a torment like Sisyphus.
He, the underdog, at the mercy of his cruel boss.
His high-born master of countless office drones.
Proud as the lord of the shadows, clever as a coke-snorting gorilla.
Donald's life: empty like a pensioner's refrigerator at the end of the month.
Only his account is well-filled with savings from years of toil.
[Chorus]
And the heart thirsts for meaning,
which no god and no paycheck can give.
His soul: hungry for anything—no matter what.
[Bridge]
So he went to those who promised eternal salvation,
who preached with fiery words about the heavenly kingdom of the righteous,
who distributed the sweet opium of religion to the hopeless.
To her, the prophetess, the high priestess, the anointed one of the God.
She questioned him in the spirit of the Lord and with a divine eye for financial details.
“You are chosen—you, the invisible one,” said the prophetess with flattering words, “you are the spark that darkness fears!”
[Chorus]
With a wink, the Lord said: “An easy chair to fill in the choir, a donation account on two legs, a willing fool.”
[Verse 2]
He gets caught in the net, stumbles over faces in black,
a stream of lights, songs
and the mistress's voice, sweet as poison:
“You are seen, brother. You are recognized.”
His heart pounds, finally someone who recognizes him.
Who understands his true worth.
[Chorus]
O Zwingli, son of naivety born of narcissism,
enter the circle where shadows pray, where tongues of fire sing truth,
and every doubt devours itself.
[Bridge]
He goes there, he sits down, the temple burns with voices.
Candles, banners, glances like spears—and there: her.
The Lord's anointed, dark and shining,
with looks that devour whole men.
She smiles with the eyes of a hungry python and speaks to him.
“You are chosen – you, Donald, who are pure in faith!”
And suddenly he feels great, he feels needed,
he feels like... more.
[Outro]
His name is called, to holy baptism,
“Drink, O chosen one, the cup of Jehovah. Follow the voice that frees you from the ego. Take the oath!”
His voice fails him, at the gracious, greedy smile of the high priestess.
But in that moment he believes: The years of nothingness were preparation.
The dust from clouds of banality was seed.
His heart a battlefield—and he victorious in faith.
No longer a nobody, a servant of God, immortal, invincible.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink: “You are now part of the song. A slave to your mistress, body and soul!”
2nd Song
[Intro]
And the Prophetess spoke with a tongue like a whip to her flock:
“Open your hearts and your purses, for what is earthly glitter worth!”
And her blazing eyes struck the kneeling servant of God, Zwingli.
[Verse]
“I vow to donate a thousand Esperanto dollars to the holy cause,”
cried Donald, filled with sacred fervor, his mind clouded by the unholy spirit.
Thunderous applause, hands upon his shoulders—
Donald staggers, he laughs, he weeps, he feels grand.
Everything he never was is now bestowed upon him—or so he believes.
She, the Prophetess, smiles like a dark goddess at the sight of sacrificed men,
and exclaims in rapture: “Behold the Lamb of God, the chosen of the Lord!”
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“The simple fool fills the coffer, bends the knee,
and checks his brain at the cloakroom of vain phrases.”
[Bridge]
Thus ends the deceitful beginning of the end.
Donald Zwingli, the third of his name—neither full fool nor genius—
only a man who believes he finally matters.
But every ‘You are chosen’ is but a knife with a golden hilt,
and he—just another sheep to be shorn.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Just another dimwit, forgotten by Heaven and bought cheap by Hell.”
[Verse 2]
So he is bound in chains of his own forging,
not to fame, nor gods, but to words darker than night.
Now a player in the drama of the realm of shadows.
And voices from the sea of darkness whisper:
“This is but the beginning. At the table of the chosen,
where no gods feast, but dark prophets devour souls like sacrificial flesh.”
[Bridge]
The hall trembles—no Amen, only screams.
The Queen of Darkness stands before them:
a breath of Mussolini, a roar like Hitler,
and every glance declares: You are dust.
She strikes, she blesses, she kisses, she crushes—
and the sheep give thanks for the butcher’s blade.
“Cleanse yourselves in fire, give your gold—
only he who bleeds shall be redeemed!”
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“He who will not bleed shall feel the lash,
the heavenly credit card of purgatory.”
[Outro]
Donald sees it, Donald knows it deep within,
yet sweet honey of toxic self-deception drips into his mind.
“Brother, you are chosen, you are the light in the darkness.”
And he nods, he smiles, forgets every doubt—
and his bank account weeps.
3rd Song
[Intro]
O atonement, O offering, O coin that rings within the chalice—
a soul leaps from the purgatorial flame.
This is the Amen that we exalt,
this is the Host of flesh and guilt.
For blessed are the mindless in poverty.
[Verse]
Now penniless is Freddy Pius—once a wealthy pensioner.
The anointed of the Lord seizes the old man, shrieks him down, spits in his face.
“Save your soul, O sinner!” cries the prophetess in divine wrath.
“Free yourself of earthly wealth, sell it, that the work of God may flourish!”
Trembling, the greybeard repents, donates his last belongings to the dark goddess.
“Cleanse yourselves in fire, give your gold—only those who bleed shall be redeemed!”
The crowd roars its bleating Hosanna; Donald claps, Donald trembles,
drunk on voyeuristic, religious ecstasy.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“An subscription model of self-made misery.”
[Bridge]
Yet when Donald’s name is spoken, his heart melts like wax.
He hands over the envelope of tithe and tribute—
one envelope, then another, ever more, ever higher.
“O pure soul, thou art truly a child of God!” declares the high priestess.
Behind her beatific smile lurks the Medusa’s grin.
And Zwingli’s account melts like snow on a summer’s day.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Apotheosis by receipt—holiness for a bank statement.”
[Verse 2]
So his account runs dry, and contrite he sinks before his goddess.
“I wish to pay, but cannot give the tithe. Forgive me, O Lady!”
“O what a sinner thou art! Thy ruin shall be thy love of gold!
Wouldst thou fall? Wouldst thou be accursed?”
An angel from the abyss, eyes aflame, tongue a whip.
He withers, pledges double tribute; he pays—
and the hands that threatened now caress.
“Praise to him who pays! Salvation to him who gives!”
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“A chosen one? Nay—a cash machine that says Amen when kicked.”
[Bridge]
Thus Donald becomes a slave of his own free will—
bound not with chains of iron, but tongues of fire
that preach and bite in one breath.
He does not lose his life, but piece by piece his very self.
And the hall sings: Cleanse yourselves in fire…
So guilt becomes offering, and offering becomes the treasure of the temple.
[Outro]
And lo: the coffers are empty, the treasuries plundered.
The chosen stands naked before the priestess of flame.
Thus begins the cataclysm—
not born of thunder, but of fraud.
4th Song
[Intro]
Thus the chosen one’s account is burnt to ash in holy zeal.
But the servants of the Lord—slaves of the Lady—know no mercy.
Only scornful eyes of pity turned to blades.
And there, upon the pulpit: the Queen of Flames,
spits fire at the faithless sinners—and gazes only at him.
[Verse]
“Woe unto the servants of Mammon! Woe unto the false brethren in sheep’s disguise!”
so thunders the high priestess in Old Testament fury.
She cries of demons, of changelings in the circle, of faces of Judas—
devils masked as saints who refuse to pay the tithe.
Donald sweats, Donald trembles; her eyes pierce into his flesh.
The faithful rejoice, and each casts, in rapture, the first stone.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“He who is bankrupt is not worth even as a doormat.”
[Bridge]
Then the anointed of the Lord proclaims the name of an apostate—
“Thomas Infidelis, son of the demon Baphomet,
reincarnation of the temple-whore Jezebel!”
And the crowd murmurs, shudders at the one who dared to leave.
For God’s wrath had struck him—in the form of an automobile,
driven by a true believer.
“Thus speaks the Lord through my fire; thus fall the demons
like withered leaves upon the wind!
Thus does the Lord smite the deserters! Thus rides wrath upon the traitors!”
And the dark goddess gifts Donald a hungry smile.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Not My work. The instrument of man-made providence
was a ’68 Ford Mustang.”
[Verse 2]
Despair prevails—he takes a loan.
A thousand chains of paper, each interest rate a nail in the flesh.
Still he believes—until even that source runs dry,
and only the whip remains.
No title, no praise, no apotheosis—
only a place within the ninth circle of hell.
Yesterday a prophet, today mere dust in the Lady’s temple.
“Woe unto the lame in faith! Woe unto the weary in giving!”
echoes the prophetess’s cry.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Only as long as you give are you loved—
but when you are empty, you are nothing.”
[Bridge]
So he stands—impoverished, indebted,
no chosen one, but a fool of false prophets,
betrayed and self-betraying.
Donald Zwingli—once the chosen—now a nothing,
a despised little sheep among sheep.
The hall roars, the leader screams,
yet within his heart a whisper asks:
“Am I but a lamb in the slaughterhouse?”
The vain dream is over; he awakens—
but wisdom is not what wakes him.
[Outro]
He crosses the world’s edge,
leaves the realm of the dark goddess—
not in storm or ocean’s roar,
not in thunder or armies’ march,
but silently, like a thief in the night.
5th Song
[Intro]
And lo, the anointed of the Lord rages in holy wrath.
How dared he, that small-minded servant, that nothing,
to flee her divine dominion.
[Verse]
“Cursed is the apostate! No law shall shield him
from the eternal fire of hell!”
She makes it rain sulphur and flame in the temple of the dark goddess.
“He whose name is forever accursed is the son of Antichrist—a thrall of Satan!”
Her burning gaze sweeps the flock, who now howl like wolves.
“Is there no true believer who will destroy this spawn of hell?”
And so the servants of God set forth to their holy work.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“A new children’s crusade in My name—
embarrassing, but I couldn’t care less.”
[Bridge]
Donald thinks it’s over,
thinks his silence has bought him peace.
He barely escapes the broad tyres of a familiar truck—
Brother Tuck at the wheel.
He nearly meets the kitchen knife hidden deep
in Sister Lucretia’s handbag.
A well-aimed stone from eleven-year-old acolyte Tom
misses his skull by a hair’s breadth.
And in the realm of the dark goddess,
men, women and children pray for his death.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“The hunt is on, the prey already lost.”
[Verse 2]
To save himself, he tries to speak, goes to the police.
They laugh—another lunatic in the noise of files.
He insists, demands the chief; smirking, they fetch her.
“Madmen sometimes get shot by accident,”
says the police captain cheerfully.
Donald freezes—he knows her.
Once she stood at the Prophetess’s right hand.
They let him go, saying they’ll “take care of him later.”
[Bridge]
He goes to the press, sliding notes across tables:
“Cult war! Murder! Car crash!”
They yawn, they shrug, they shake their heads.
“Not trending. Not politically correct. No market value. Unreliable.”
At last one editor takes pity, whispering in fear
of the Prophetess’s father—an almighty senator, the puppeteer,
mightier than God, craftier than Lucifer.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“He who beholds the madness stays silent
when the knife gleams.”
[Outro]
So he wanders the streets, desperate, forsaken,
until uniformed hands seize him,
drag him into the patrol car.
But no cell awaits—only
the tribunal of the dark goddess.
Children sing, the old pray, the hunters laugh.
6th Song
[Intro]
Factory hall—roof of rust,
a pyre of pallets stacked to heaven.
And before it, like the angel of the pit,
stands she—the dark goddess.
[Verse]
The policemen snicker, mockingly;
they hand him to the faithful—no shield, only betrayal.
“Cleanse him in fire! Burn the sorcerer in the Lord’s name!”
declares the anointed of the Lord.
Merciless hands seize Donald, bind him, pour the gasoline.
Donald breaks, begs, weeps, screams: “Mercy!”
The prophetess smiles—delighted, savoring the spectacle.
“You have forfeit every right to mercy, O son of Satan.
Plead for grace for thy corrupted soul—plead for forgiveness!”
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“O heretics, O fire, O fanatical fools!
Greater than My power is the power of human madness.”
[Bridge]
He writhes in despair, the crowd roars with pleasure.
Children are lifted onto shoulders
to better behold the sinner’s end.
Then comes the executioner, bearing the torch in bliss.
The anointed nods solemnly,
and the police chief lights the holy fire.
The flame licks, the mob exults,
and Donald screams, losing his mind:
“I repent!”
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“What a delightful pastime—a fiery festival!
Cruel, yes, yet of their free will.
Not My problem.”
[Verse 2]
Then she raises her hand—the Queen of Shadows.
“Stop!”—and the world stands still.
“Extinguish the fire and unbind the wretch.”
No mercy—only triumph.
For she had learned from her father long ago:
True power is mastery over life and death—
without remorse, without justification.
Obediently the flock smothers the flames,
frees Donald from his chains.
[Chorus]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“It is not I, the Lord, who decides your fate,
but your leaders—and though they be mad,
still you follow.”
[Bridge]
Broken, burned, yet alive,
Donald kneels, kisses the dust before her.
“So thou hast truly repented, O wretched sinner!
So shall forgiveness be thine.”
He weeps for joy, no doubt remains—only fervent devotion.
The dark goddess smiles, prepared for her final triumph.
“Purged by fire, thou shalt be my inquisitor—
the scourge of God, the hammer
by which I smite the unbelievers!”
[Outro]
Donald Zwingli is no more,
consumed within the flames of madness.
Arises her slave, a creature shaped by her will—
born the Inquisitor, pitiless instrument,
orchestrated by the endless jubilation of the faithful.
[Spoken]
And the Lord said with a wink:
“Thus the song was fulfilled—
not in victory, nor in freedom,
but in the bondage of madness.”
© 2025 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju
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