“Speak to us”, they asked, “of wrath.”
And so he did:
Wrath without gain is emtpiness, wasted.
Do not bruise a blade against an iron pillar.
Do not pour out your cup into the river Ocean.
The pillar is Justice, and it is older than gods, and more indifferent. Put no hope in it, and expect no response, for it bends to no will, and has no will of its own. The pillar dreams only of iron, and has no thoughts for living things. Therefore, do not expend wrath in the name of Justice; it is a deaf idol, a dulling drone, a distraction.
The river is Self-Survival, and it is infinitely wide and long and deep, and flows in not one direction, but all directions at once. To add blood to it is vanity; drink from it instead. Again, I say, to kill for Self-Survival is to consume with fire the altar and the offering on it at once: altars exist for more than one occasion, more than one use. The Self will survive by other means–a multitude of means more numerous than all the souls in Annwn number, now or ever. To bite off the fingers of one’s own hand is the path of the sluggard, the unimaginative, and the artless.
How then should wrath be spent? Let the hand of your wrath be a shepherd’s crook, a bridge of scorched stones and blood that crosses into Heaven itself. Let your wrath be lessons written in fire, and a tapestry woven in ashes to hang in the gallery of your House. Let wrath be the flowers in your garden, and the lanterns on the path which leads home.