DO NOT TRESSPASS, it boldly states.
I look and spot some fruit in sight,
Glance left and right. My heart pulsates.
I step across with eyes lit bright.
My heart is where sin roots and grows:
Lusting for her—or envies him.
What my heart hides, its fruit shall show
Like shaving cream stuck on my chin.
Sometimes I think, “What is, is sin?”
“Be sure your sin will find you out.” *
I do admit, my sin’s within—
On fertile beds, they root and sprout.
DO NOT TRESSPASS, words for the wise.
My heart is deeper than my breast:
For where my fortune lures and lies,
My heart does pump inside that chest.
So heed from one who sinned and learned.
The seeds of sin shoot in the heart.
The Son of Light, those sprouts he burned,
Shall scorch new ones at their first start.