Lest his pilgrim, sins do not inaugurate…

…Unnerve mine-eye.
That I might see!
That hand that stirs...
Upon an unequivocal; sky and sea…
Lead me through thy lowly pastoral gate.
Lest this nomad’s world; does not abate.
O’ pagan heart that still incurs…
A nonetheless same fate!
Whose nightfall is far from bleak or dark..?
Whose black-star is a brim thy golden-art.
In thy ordnance of grace
Show me thy non-illusory, immaculate
Stonemason-airy non-despotic face.
Unleash thy duel-forked lightning!
Scythe this nomad’s world abate.
Lest his pilgrim, sins do not inaugurate…