Aston kamunde


My mind stands in its own infallible ground,
Has the aptitude to weave its own skewed view,
Of turning this moment, heaven on hell,
Or of whirling hell into heaven

With the unrefined language of nature,
It stands alone like a strong tree,
The roots sunk deep into the infinity,
Glossed over whatever thing that is evil

I risk to ran over the idyllic religion,
That seems too wanting, too difficult,
Whose visage has been left untested,
Harbored but unrepressed

How excruciating this can be,
To shun from the voice of the heart,
The voice that defines the true self,
That carries all powers and secrets,
Just to appease the unappeasable

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