The place in which I hide

There is a little place in which I hide, for I'm afraid of burnning.
Criticism, and ridicule taint the spirits learning.
Should not I push forth with all my strength, with rhetorical
lust for blood.
And place top witches blade a hand for craft I love.
While reading literature placed by ancients upon the passing soul
of fathers. The redes, oaths, and books of earth, sun and moon, passed down
to son and daughter.

In this place in which I hide afraid of being burned.
Called the craft, and my liberation from the shameless yearn.
For one unforgiven, I remain hidden in the little place inside.
My heart, the art, and that part of me that reasons with spiritual mind.
Here I stand at the door afraid to step outside.
Burnning, persecuted, pagan liberated afraid no more for what
is inside.