The bull died at the appointed hour. Eris stood in her bed-room closing both ears with trembling palms.
She did not hear the shot. Mazie found her there; laughed at her good-naturedly.
Eris’ lips formed the words: “Is he dead?”
“My dear, he’s Polack beef by now.”
Gloria tauri—gloria mundi. But whatever ends always begins again.
What was the Dionysia is now Rosicrucian ... and shall again be something else ... and always the same.
As for the Bull of Mithra—and Mithra, too—bull-calves are born every day. And there are a million million suns in the making.
It’s only the Old Order that changes, not what orders it.