Esse est Percipe (To be is to be perceived)

Even in the ice of winter
as we walk across the river
to the city, to the life
we feel the warmth of the water
as it flows around and beneath
flows intuitively without rhythm

Even in the steam of summer
as we walk upon the island
from the city to the life
we feel the cool rain
as it drips from the clouds
drips rhythmically in a torrent

And as the water roars into the
darkness of the night and
the night slips softly into the
wetness of the morning
nothing has been cleansed
unless we see that it is clean


The Word is God, and I am just The Son
You see, The Son of God is not a word
A flame that cools the heat of everyone
Who breathes the fire of every sound I heard.

And who would be the mother of my life?
Beget the simple Son of some great Word?
What Word would take less than a word to wife
A concubine? Then please don’t be absurd.

They nailed me to a cross; it hurt like hell
And now the cross is worshiped, like the blood
Sanguinis Christi casts a Christian’s spell
And thus begins the ebbing of the flood

The Word is God, and I am just The Son
Pronounce me now, before the day is done.