Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth Regina Alexandra the Second of Great Britain, Northern Ireland and the British Empire

Dear Diary,

For the historical record, on the 8th of September 2022 Queen Elizabeth the Second of Great Britain died. I have read touching encomia by friends, holding dear in their hearts the memory of such a monarch as this. It is well known fact that Her Majesty had two official birthdays. her Majesty's real one, according to the astrologer, psychologist and writer on esoteric subjects Liz Green (not to be confounded with the archaeologist and classicist from Canada) wrote that Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth was a Taurus (in her Astrology and Fate). In one medieval manuscript, a Book of Hours, I saw all twelve signs depicted, and all the people in the boxish frames were commoners, all, except one: Taurus. Taurus is a noble sign. It is the mark of strength (in the Nordic tradition, I speak of runelore) and indeed many cultures, from the Persian Mithraic culture, through to Europa, and indeed the Norsemen revered the bull as a sacred symbol.

I am aware that there is a kind of Faustian dichotomy with the élite. One friend I have managed to find captured video footage from Bohemian Grove, the Bildebergers, and the music and film which was being played was Richard Burton's Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe. Without profaning such a sacred subject, needless to say, that my own eulogy for the passing of such a mighty and well-respected monarch was not prosaic as all the others are. It was written several months ago, in anticipation of this event. Prose is the language of mere mortals, whereas verse is the language of the immortal gods. See if you can spot any Marlowe in this, my ode to so mighty a monarch that ever graced this corner of the world with her divine presence:

As often as we may ponder this
most blessēd and bright lady, we’d be seen
to cherish those that were there, as well as
the unfading memory of our queen.
Illustrious Rome, an object of wonder,
whose empire is envied by its neighbours,
heaven had blest with fortune, more power
than those that had rebelled against its might.
Cut was the branch that could have arched out right,
and burnt is Persephone’s golden bough.
All that remain, are memories of her,
our queen, that overreached her place. She’s gone,
like Icarus soared high, near to the sun,
only to be born again in this way,
that her memory lives on, age to age,
ever renewing herself as the yew,
to die with honour is to live anew.
When men of future generations
speak well of our illustrious queen,
let them speak of Britannia,
and that mighty branch from Boadicea,
whose roots run deep as Albion’s oak tree,
and all the world knows her as our great queen.

Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni an epic play by Maxwell Lewis Latham (2022) - the final stanza.