Prison for the damned soul.
Has no space for standing,
for something called the ideal
or against the lies.
Nor is there room
to lie down and wither,
just enough to bear witness
to the hated life.
What's the worth of the light of the sun
without the fire of hate and lust it awakes?
And, what good is the light of the moon
without spilled blood for it to bless?
The black sun worshipper,
denied himself, denied life.
Because of his convictions,
he let everything fade away.
Is it a choice to abandon
the inner saviour, inner master
when your fate didn't matter
even to those most luminous beings?
What's the worth of the light of the sun
without the fire of hate and lust it awakes?
And, what good is the light of the moon
without spilled blood for it to bless?