April 15, 2019

4:22 pm

 

We cannot wait for birth or death

For truth is found not in the end

But eo ipso tempore.

 

To the burning cathedral of our mother in Paris:

 

Should I wait until the deed is done to write of you?

If you die, would it be better for the wonder of your burning to be recognized

After the ashes have cooled?

If you die, would it be better for the wonder of your death to be reknown 

After the paint in your remains dries?

If you stay, would that your burning mean anything at all.

If you stand, would that your death be a story untold.

If you burn, would that your burning mean anything as it occurs.

You are burning, you are gunning downward in a topple

On the Seine, the Seine:

A sign of neither life nor death but water flowing, tower burning

As it occurs

There is beauty to be found

To be recognized and reknown

In the act of the burning beautiful, the act of the injury

A juried truth rendered built by man and killed by hand

Of God, of man, while men even now lie below the smoldering

If not breathing in through lungs than out through cobblestones

Out through diptych now decayed

Out through altar laid waste

Out through prayers still hanging, falling, gasping now within the nave

A truth in flames

Built by man and killed by hand

Of God in beautiful display not done, not dead, not cooled, not standing

But burning.

Mother, you are beautiful, even now, before an end.