‘The Spirit of the Anti-Mary’ by Karen Darantière

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The Spirit of the Anti-Mary

a poem in honor of Our Lady of Gualalupe in reparation for the crime of abortion and abortion-tainted medicines

All those who seek me find eternal Life,
But those who sin against me snuff life’s breath,
And plunge into their souls a blood-stained knife,
For all who hate me love cruel murderous Death.*

Thus does the Mother of the Living speak,
The living tabernacle of the Truth,
Whose womb enshrined the Infant mild and meek
Who vanquishes the father of untruth.

Through Eve came Death, through Mary life renewed,
For through her womb the Lord of Life who saves,
Revives our soul, whereas, with pride imbued,
Her hateful Enemy our soul enslaves.

Since first he staunchly refused, with wounded pride,
To bend a humble knee before the Lord,
The purest Lady he cannot abide,
But longs, in lieu of God, to be adored.

The Spirit of the Anti-Mary reigns,
As Deathly Lord of hearts he infiltrates,
Of minds he deviates; to love he feigns,
While lethal lies he subtly propagates.

While hovering high above in darkened sky,
He circles round and round as he descends
In lowering spiral, so as souls to spy,
And lead astray all those he false befriends.

So patient, he awaits the time to kill,
With help of mothers by his lies beguiled,
Whose hearts he much defiles with artful skill,
While savoring sweetest blood of slaughtered child.

The helpless unborn child is nestled safe
Inside the shelter of maternal womb;
He longs to make this sacred space unsafe,
And there the tiny victim to entomb.

Alighting on the earth, in wait he lies;
The chance he seeks lacks just a little while;
He slithers swift in serpentine disguise,
Seducing all who cede to poisonous guile.

Now hark, the hiss of Satan, sweet caress,
Such subtle poison seeps into the soul,
Soft whispering words in ears which acquiesce;
Assassin from the start, ‘tis death his goal.

Now look, but not with sad indifference,
At Aztecs’ sacrificial feticide,
Their altars red with blood of innocents,
Then at our modern-day infanticide.

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In ancient days the Aztecs offered blood
Of unborn children, which on altars spurt
And freely flowed in sacrificial flood,
To cruel, earth-mother goddess: Serpent Skirt.

In gruesome garb, horrendous deity
Is clothed, with writhing, deadly snakes for skirt;
A sea of serpents sprouts abundantly,
Her head and arms and legs are all begirt.

Bloodthirsty goddess, named Coatlicue,
Is patroness of mothers giving birth,
But pregnant women wisely should eschew
The hill of Tepeyac with blood-drenched earth.

For there atop this hill her temple stands,
Where cruel men dragging shrieking mothers, shout:
Cut open wide their wombs, so She commands,
And with bare hands, now wrench the children out!

They then with sharpened blade the babes behead,
Appeasing thus this hideous fiend from hell;
Once dry, they string each tiny infant head
On necklaces, to dress the demon well.

Her vicious reign o’er this poor land was quashed
When conquering Spaniards came with Cross and sword;
The sacrificial altar they then squashed,
The way was paved now for the one true Lord.

Not long thereafter, our true Queen of Peace
Appeared in lovely virginal array:
Cerulean mantle made of softest fleece,
Emblazoned o’er with stars as bright as day.

Through her, high heaven came to kiss the earth,
Transfigured into rainbow-hued delight;
From winter gloom to bounteous springtime mirth,
All living things shone bright with splendorous light.

Just where the demon goddess had blasphemed
The utter holiness of motherhood,
Our Mother set her pristine foot, redeemed
The soil where sacrilegious altar stood.

Our Lady as expectant mother came
With swollen womb; she was to soon give birth
To God her Son, so she wished to proclaim:
Each beating human heart has sacred worth.

To Juan Diego, she reveals her name
In Aztec tongue, as Guadalupe: She
Who crushes serpent’s head; she will reclaim
This earth, from demon’s clutches set it free.

Amazed by sweetest birdsong filling air,
Of sweet celestial song, he seeks the source,
Looks up to hilltop, hears a voice from there
So gently beckon him with greatest force:

Juanito, come! So up he climbs and sees,
With awe and joy, a Virgin high on hill,
Before his Mother falls down on his knees;
She now explains to him her holy will.

He listens, prostrate, to enlivening Word:
Know well, believe as true, my little son,
The God by whom all men to life are stirred,
Chose me to be the Mother of his Son.

I am the Mother of Incarnate Love,
Of Life eternal, come today to say
To you:  fulfill the will of God above,
Build here my temple, to my Heart here pray.

O miracle of Mary: barren hill
To beauteous blossom-covered paradise
Transformed, before his eyes, through her good will,
Each crimson rose a sign of sacrifice.

Our own red roses, martyred innocents,
In infinite array, her garden grace,
Exude in heaven fragrant innocence,
In Mary’s blessed Heart hold choicest place.

*    *    *

‘Tis time now to confront with honesty,
Our Anti-Mary Spirit of infanticide,
And sound its depths; from this reality,
However painful, we must not now hide.

So open wide your eyes and you shall see
Those Satan slyly managed to entice
Into our own immense iniquity,
Our own abysmal infant sacrifice.

O Lady, as at Fatima, reveal
And show to us, your children, sights of hell;
Of this our hell on earth, do not conceal
The horror, but our apathy dispel.

Show us the child whom we dare desecrate
Through torture, murder, theft of body parts;
Hide not the womb that we would violate,
Nor how we market kidneys, brains, and hearts.

Of callous crime, show us the growing chain
Which Satan slowly, surely wraps around
Our necks, to strangle us, provoke great pain,
Enslave us, so in our own sins we’re bound.

I hear the hiss of Satan soft arise,
I see his shadow slyly slither round
And round the womb to cause its dread demise,
Of beating heart within, to stop the sound.

The doctor to a killer is transformed,
His sole desire before the sacred womb,
As each abortion’s expertly performed,
Is now to make of it an empty tomb.

He blindly breaks his sacred oath to heal,
And with the devil signs a pact to kill;
The right to life he thinks he can repeal,
But in his heart a coldness does instill.

Let’s go forthwith and open wide the door
Of an abortion mill on average day,
To see first martyr and her death deplore,
An unborn girl nine weeks of age today.

Her mother’s come to have an ultrasound:
Oh look! She’s just now turned a somersault!
What’s this we clearly see?  She’s just now frowned!
Her name?  God knows, not we, through our own fault.

For now, at three months old, she’s to be slain;
Her mother’s come again with this new aim;
By now, her girl can cry and feel great pain;
The doctor comes, with forceps, her to maim!

He now inserts them quickly, as he’s rushed;
He grasps, he breaks, the bones are twisted off;
The spine is snapped, the baby’s skull is crushed,
She’s totally dismembered and cast off.

I’ve still much work to do, the doctor sighs;
Here comes an unborn boy at twenty weeks:
His ears can hear and even recognize
His own dear mother’s voice each time she speaks.

Into the womb a needle pierces deep,
Injects saline solution, spreads throughout;
The baby swallows: in does poison seep,
Corrodes the little boy inside and out.

The mother’s womb has now become a tomb;
Next day her dying boy is born in pain;
He’s born alive despite impending doom;
To barest thread of life he holds in vain.

Tis icy cold in Satan’s hands today;
The dying baby shivers till he’s still
And silent, as forsaken now he lay
In drops, nay pools of blood that quickly chill.

Once swaddled warmly in his mother’s womb,
No one will mourn for him nor will they weep,
As he lies lifeless in a sterile room,
As his remains are thrown on garbage heap.

Here comes another martyr yet again;
He’s now delivered at just five months old;
Once born, he feels excruciating pain,
As of his kidney skillful hand takes hold.

Once cut, removed, and packed, then straightaway
The tiny organ’s chilled to keep it fresh,
And shipped to scientists without delay,
Who fetal cells extract from infant flesh.

With great barbarity did Aztecs slay
The unborn babes they wrenched from open womb,
While helpless mothers on the altars lay,
Awaiting, still, their own impending doom.

Our own barbarity is just as great;
No matter how we try to misconstrue,
Our crimes with theirs we cannot but equate;
We know deep down precisely what we do.

The devil’s thirst for blood is never quenched;
The billions of aborted babes content
Him not: In heinous evil firm entrenched,
Let’s onward now pursue our deep descent.

For blessed Health’s sake, shrewdly hisses he,
Why waste these useful fetal body parts? 
Let’s harvest infant organs: why don’t we
Extract for research babies’ beating hearts?

With feeble reasoning, we justify
Cooperation in this darkness deep,
We soothe our souls in vain, the truth belie,
And blithely lull our consciences to sleep.

Mass infant murder in the mother’s womb!
Before this genocide all horrors pale;
Our earth’s becoming one vast infant tomb,
With seas where countless crimson drops prevail.

To heaven high these martyred children cry
From all abortion-tainted medicines;
Please, Mary, to this query now reply:
Should we, o Mother, profit from such sins?

*    *    *

Where Spirit of the Anti-Mary reigns,
Instead of baby Jesus in the cave,
We see a lengthy trail of bloody stains
From empty manger to a fresh-filled grave.

What wily wicked words have we just heard?
No lullaby of Mary’s, sweet and true,
Nor echo of Incarnate selfless Word:
This is my body, given up for you.

We hear a voice pronounce a heartless lie:
This is your body, given up for me.  
A slaughterous satanic lullaby:
Perverse inversion, vast iniquity!

Abortion is an irreligious rite,
A sacrilegious sacrament of souls
Completely plunged in starless, pitch-black night,
Whom the Unholy Spirit now controls.

O cruel, cold-hearted, callous selfishness,
How sneering Satan does in you exult,
In triumph over loving selflessness.
Shall we take part in this infernal cult?

But no! We’ll heed Our Lady’s earnest call:
Be of my heel, for it, as once foretold,
Will crush the demon’s head once and for all;
Stand firm, my victory you will behold.

Come once again, as long ago, to save
Your children: crush the deadly demon’s head!
And loose his stranglehold on each, his slave,
Come rescue us: we drown in seas of red!

Awake our slumbering souls, shake off our vice,
Our dimmed and darkened minds, please do unchain,
Breathe warmth to melt our hardened hearts of ice,
Invigorate our withering wills which wane.

Help us love Life, seek Truth as our rampart,
And find the Way to heavenly reward;
May we no longer sin against your Heart,
But find through you salvation in the Lord.

With grace divine your purest Heart replete,
With love of soundless depth and greatest breadth,
Come, Lady of eternal Life, defeat
The darkest demon of unending Death!

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*These words of Wisdom are applied to Mary, the Seat of Wisdom, by the Holy Spirit through the Catholic Liturgy, on the Feast of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary, according to the Vetus Ordo, celebrated on the 8th of September: “He that shall find me, shall find life, and shall have salvation from the Lord.  But he that shall sin against me, shall hurt his own soul.  All that hate me love death.” (Proverbs 8, 35-36)

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Karen Darantière is an American living in France who teaches English language and literature at a French high school in Paris.