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They called it short gratification—
but I lost my soul in the trade.
A moment’s pleasure,
for a lifetime of emptiness,
a spark that consumed
the temple I once was.

O Woman,
your body is not desire’s playground—
it is the chalice of divinity.
If you fail to respect your sacred form,
no man ever will.
Each man you lie with,
leaves an imprint upon your soul.
And when the heart is full of echoes,
love can no longer enter.

She who has known many beds
knows not the purity of love.
Even if she marries,
she loves through masks,
feigning wholeness
where only fragments dwell.
Sex, O Daughter of Earth,
is holy.
Its dignity is not for barter.
Its sanctity must be preserved
like sacred fire—
untouched except by sacred hands.

No woman,
broken into many parts by many men,
can give birth to a saint.
For birth is not biology alone—
it is the transmission of soul.

Emotions are energy in motion,
and a woman’s energy
flows to where she bleeds.
When her soul is divided,
her spirit is imprisoned.
Stay pure, O Bearer of the Womb,
and behold the power you possess:
You gave birth to God
when your soul was whole.

And to you, O Man,
custodian of seed and fire—
know this:
Semen is not waste,
but divine currency.
It takes your body
days, even weeks,
to forge a single drop.
To spill it for fleeting pleasure
is to burn the blueprint of your empire.

Tesla knew this.
Newton understood.
Even Christ guarded His vessel.
Retention is ascension.
When not used to create life,
semen begins to create you—
sharpening mind,
fortifying spirit,
awakening God within.

Your seed is sacred—
the last power you hold
in a world of vanishing strength.
Guard it.
Wield it with wisdom.
Let it be the cornerstone
of legacy, not lust.

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