To whom, in whose heart, no faith is dwelling, life is miserable. When I’m too sinful to embrace religion and keep failing in love, literature then becomes, to me, the last straw.
Some beholds presence as time and space,
To whom, which is being of forms,
Parted by chance,
To feel, too much a distance,
Too long a time of length,
But an union ,an universe as within earth,
Unit in gravitationay force,
No one ever out, years equal blinks,
In omnipresence he exists.