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Poison for the Heart

 

 

Conclusion

I am no writer. I can only blurt out a few crude words, and offer them as a sample of my mind. And while I write these words with my blood, and my life is in them, I do not however live for them. As I say, I am no writer, and do not wish to entrust my future to the doubtful fortunes of a few scratches on paper.

You see, if during my life I have suffered for the truth, and have relentlessly sought where the wind bites keenest, then I will consider this fair compensation for my failings as a poet.

If there is even a single superior seeker, who has broken through the Barrier into the secret depths, and he chances to get a glance at these lines, he will feel as though he is meeting-up with an old friend. The truly wise, however, will no doubt spit upon these words as filth.

I dedicate these poisonous words to evolution, without whose help I would not be here to write them, and you would not be poisoned.

 

 

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