Heretic

Not in golden cathedrals, light, Not in lush robes, the sworn rite. He listened to old walls' sighs, Saw pain, not believing the ties. His lot, not singing in choirs, But seeing cracks in dream's flares, Where "truth" is mere ash of lies, Where souls yearn, but are weak in sighs. He neither swore, nor prayed, He chose to delve where truth was laid. And the world, asleep in cozy lies, Rejected him, declared: "Arise/Fly!" But in this bitter silence's hold, Where his track burns in fires bold, He found the freedom of words' might, Breaking the chain of false light. The Heretic is not a snare, But simply brave, beyond compare, Beyond dogmas, at dawn's embrace, He saved the light of burnt-out grace.