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Lasha (if I may be so bold),
Few there are who tread the round
Implacably till Hell grows cold.
Most souls are drawn to up or down,
To Sattva’s light or Tamas’ murk
From Rajas’ repetitious spin.
At intervals your path must fork
To realms where new love can begin.
Your door at death can lead beyond
The trip back to your mother’s womb.
Souls are trapped by self-made bond
And perverse urge to will their doom.
Alas for those cast in the guise
Of Nietzsche or Ivan Osokin!
Dare to rise into the skies
Where sylphs and angels are your kin.