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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?