It is clear that in the past, Parsifal, the innocent chaste one, had also wounded with his arrow the swan of immaculate whiteness, the miraculous Hamsa…
To all the diverse questions that with much emphasis are asked of him, he keeps silent. It is obvious that he ignores everything, he has eliminated the “I,” he does not even remember the name of his terrestrial progenitor, he has re-conquered the Edenic innocence…
He only knows his mother and her name, which is Herzeleide, and that in the most profound forest they made their home.
Fatherless did his poor, heartbroken, sweet mother bear him, for his father (Gamuret was his name) was gloriously slain amidst the armlets and bucklers of the battlefield.
In order to protect her child against the premature sign of the heroes, far from arms and in the middle of the most crass ignorance, this adorable mother raised him with infinite tenderness in a wilderness.
Nonetheless… one given day, this young man of heroic lineage saw human flames in the forest…
Those knights of sparkling vestures (the Grail knights), who successfully passed through the edge of those solitary wooded spots, were such an intense, glittering array that, impelled by his heroic instinct, the young man resolved to pursue them through the mountains.
Protected by the weapons of Vulcan, that young boy fought the beast of the abyss: vile representations of his ancient errors. Thus, he reduced them to cosmic dust.
This is how that fearless boy advanced until the domain of the Grail (this is how we must advance)…
Kundry, Herodias, informs him that his adorable mother is dead, cruel news that gives him an infinite bitterness that is impossible to describe with words…
A frightful moment is this: Parsifal springs furiously at Kundry, then he faints and falls. She at once hastens to a spring and brings refreshing water to help him…
Afterwards, comes the tremendous hour: Gundryggia [Kundry] says terrible things; everything that exists has its day and its hour.
It is now important to remember that beautiful poem of Don Ramon del Valle Inclan, entitled:
The Rose of the Clock
It is the hour for the enigmas,
when in the evening of a summer,
a goshawk sent one from the clouds
upon the benign doves
It is the hour for the enigmas!
It is the hour of the dove:
pursuing the flights is the sight
of a girl. Pink evening light,
divine and musical comma of love.
It is the hour of the dove!
It is the hour of the serpent:
from himself a white hair the devil yanks off
from the tree the apple breaks off
and the crystal of a dream did rent,
It is the hour of the serpent!
It is the hour of the hen:
the cemetery has lights,
before the crucifixes, the devotees in heights
make the sign of the cross, the wind agonizes.
It is the hour of the hen!
It is the hour of the maiden:
tears, letters and songs,
the air filled with orange blossoms
the blue evening, only one star
It is the hour of the maiden!
It is the hour of the screeching owl:
by he, the aged one, the scriptures are deciphered
suddenly, the mirror is shattered
she, the aged one, leaves with the oil bowl
It is the hour of the screeching owl!
It is the hour of the coquette:
Serenaded by a guitar is the street
she, the aged one, a young lad treats
to a ring with a rosette.
It is the hour of the coquette!
It is the hour of a soul in grief:
In the crossroads, a soothsayer
with the excommunicated prayer
unto the dead asks for his necklace in brief
It is the hour of a soul in grief!
It is the hour of the vespertine:
lurking, the little owl is in the pine,
the bandit in his way receives a fine
and Satan in the brothel is a swine.
It is the hour of the vespertine!
