Deep down where in our sanctuary lies,
Houses of comfort and houses of longing.
Where comfort is four walls of sainted paper,
And longings are windows to look outside,
Feeling pleasure in the viewing,
Letting it fill the heart and stir the loins,
Letting it speak to the demons within,
Taking their wives to bed,
And playing with their children,
And letting love shed its morals,
And send us hither,
We let lust be the guide henceforth.
Who doesn’t have these secret subdued desires?
The extraordinary are saints with no longings,
Made of steel walls and no windows,
No demons to admire outside,
No lustful pleasure to dream about,
Where love is an undefiled path to heaven
And not associated with pleasure,
That demon of the outside world.
Who is comfortable in their sanctuary?
Who is free of sin and the longing of sin?
Who can’t feel lust when sex unveils itself?
Who forgoes pleasure for morality?
Who can condition himself to defy instinct?
Who can keep impure thoughts away?
Who can live in a world of bliss
And disassociate himself with the
Earthly world and earthly sensations?
Who has no demons living in his sanctuary?