Canticle for the Kidron
III
See ye that I alone am, and there is no other God besides me:
I will kill and I will make to live: I will strike, and I will heal,
And there is none that can deliver out of my hand.
What in the desert suffices to quarter a minute by minute,
Hour by hour, aside from where in the sky that old sun
Stands, that this man born dead would’ve acknowledged the passing
Day as it fell to the night; not a tent nor a homespun
Tunic to cover him during the heat of the day, those foul
Winds off the mountains beleaguering what in his faculties labored
Fruitlessly, that might follow the hours as this first day and
Night passed over him, setting the sun in the west, light tapered
Sidelong, brilliant crimson and gold in the heavens above him,
Garments of burial that are appropriate given the mortal
State of Jerusalem past the horizon, interred by the Romans
That cared least of all what hopes laid there, wreathed in a floral
Spectacle there on Oliviet, that much known to a man born
Dead from what he surmised in his flight by the Sadducee’s aiding,
Though in his heart he recited a specious and vain hope, that some
Village along this path to the Jordan is fortified, waiting
Patiently, that as if some lost Maccabee should be en route there,
They would welcome him readily, though some failed to provide then,
When the returning deliverers came to the city of Ephron
Should be example enough; and if such is the case to divide men
Over a man, what hope it it that this man of all men could
Boast a reception of some hospitality, that the Judeans
Have been hosts of all, ever in time, be it toward a Levite’s
Concubine, King Hezekiah displaying his gold, or a day when
One Nehemiah was forced to install such vigilant watch that
None of his own rose morning and morning again; in whatever
Case, that which is apparent by principle comes as a roaring
Truth, that firstly, to visit a village necessitates whether
There are indeed any villages bound in between this man and
What path tarries ahead; though memory serves in uniquely
Short, imprecise terms, that this man is unable to place a
Name nor a face as his own, he remembers too little to neatly
Chart a trajectory east, and the foot-paths snaking a way through
Benjamin offer confusion instead of an obvious forward
Means to the Jordan; as such, the entangled array of the foot-paths
Stage its complex strands strewn like fetters or chains, and as war stirred
West in Judea, the tangle of roads are a boon to endure the
Worst times, learned by Assyria, Babylon, Persia, and even
That coalition of Israel which slew Benjamin down to
Hundreds of men and no others; although it is hard to believe in
Such things bringing salvation, perhaps it is fortunate that I
Travel in these lands, should the arrival of east-bound legions
Come and destroy the remaining tribes, their elders, and what else
They might choose, as it manifests this day over the region’s
Barren demeanor; as barren the ground is, a silence befalls the
Land, and no bird of the air is in flight; nor a buzz from flying
Things, and if people are calling to one or another, it falls on
Dead ground; this is the empty of this day’s journey in trying
Toward the Jordan, and save for the Kidron alongside, where I
Wash this body and sack-cloth now, for if travelers crossed by,
What an appearance it would be to witness a bloodied and broken
Man in his burial cloth, and concerned as I felt as I lost my
Sadducee, that he’d be sure to assist this lost man suited
Better for dirt graves than dirt roads, this is a blessing
Also, as Sadducees would be a sure indication to Roman
Legions of where we originate, thus it had seemed for addressing
What wounds, caked dirt, ragged attire, and blood that’s stuck to
Flesh is deterrant enough if a Roman patrol or a bandit
Choosing a victim to rob would witness the stumbling dead, they’d
Prudently wait for another, as this is a way, as I planned it,
That this journey commenced into Benjamin, wouldn’t disrupt the
Men of the tribe, and in fleeing the terror the distant horizon
Swallowed up over a day’s walk, perched on the holiest hills due
West, it is proper to wash in the Kidron, the sun as it dies in
Evening procession a cover for man’s shame, that it in years and
Years more shall do the same to Jerusalem, shame as it now flows
Running to the Kidron and rivers abound, for the sun is already
Setting on every creation, and Abaddon never allows those
Grasped by corruption to mount an escape; and the worse revelation
Seeded in this, is the sun as it sets in the west is recurrent,
That as a thing is returned to the earth and to dust, how the sun sets
Time and again on its grave as it fills in with soil, and weren’t
That sun high in the sky, some might ascertain its resplendent
Mockery therein, of rising and setting unchanged in its corner
There in the heavens, and over the dead for eternity, somewhat
Meaningless motions of equally dead repetitions, a mourner
Mocking the dead, an expressionless face there, staring in solemn
Witness of passing eternity, knowing its fate is the same thing,
Lost in the skies overhead as corruption devours all, that of
Stars, earth, moon, and of course, sun, save whom is proclaiming
Death’s enervating supremacy’s failure, the man in the river,
What in him shrieks to delay his deliverance, that the Destroyer
Flies in his fear, or a stench hangs over him that the Destroyer
Finds as displeasing, and little he knows that once he enjoyed were
Privilege, merely a small thing granted to this man
That he be there for a Sadducee, else he arrives to the river
That he be buried in water again, as the ashes of She’ol,
Once insufficient, rejected him, should he be sent to consider
Life in its anguish and joy, as a day of revival is more than
Could be allotted to dead men fairly, and should he be one thread,
While he is bathing, away from death, of his mortal encounter,
That instantaneous death is a probable case for the once dead,
Should he be fleeing the sovereign over his fate, or be callous,
That in the river he faces returning to what he awoke in,
Dust of the earth and remains to forget, that which he is still yet,
That which this man shall be unlikely to praise, the unspoken
Truth, what mankind always forgets, and the first of his thoughts when
This man felt his returned life course in his veins in renewed whim,
Placating old aspirations of lives to be lived, to remember
What we endure in our days, as to give to whomever had knew him
Vital prescriptions for living in paths of all-righteous belief, that
Which he immerses completely in water, reviving a soul still
Soaked in his blood, imitating an old life, though it is strange to
Witness the reds disappear in the waters; it’s drinking its whole fill,
Sharing in slaughter, to tangle the threads of the blood and the remnants
Therein of carnage Jerusalem vomits upstream, as a brutal
Theater of foul proportion, unlike the cerulean waters
Running along it, already retreating with evening, a neutral
Wash in the skies overhead in displays of a brilliant sunset
Pour out its crimson, displacing the cool of the blues with a brightly
Mingling vapor of reds, all the Kidron in facing the north to
South is awash in its mutating splendor; a show of a nightly
Nature peripheral when all the days are at peace, to be seen when
Only the worst of all evenings befall this place, to arise in
Regal defiance of death, the remains of the sun as immortal
Witness to change in the land of our fathers afflicts the horizon
Sharply with gold clouds, rivers of crimson, and darkly transcendent
Waves of a shadowy blue, as pernicious a spectacle over
Israel that is expected in every retreat of the fading
Sun, though manifest here in its vigor and power, and lower
Goes that sun, the arrival of greater displays of the blue hues,
Dominated totally over the course of the evening, a hollow
Darkness erasing the fullness of day in its weakest position,
There all the waters reconstitute color, all the crimsons to follow
Well the example of landscapes shaped by the falling of nighttime
Curtains, completely entrenched within bluish ethereal ranges,
Caught in the twilight’s burial, though it is worth understanding
That all of this is appearances, based on the beautiful strangeness
This man courts with a sense of bewilderment, glorious sunsets
When this man born dead disappeared in the earth for a final
Rest that soon was as far from final as possible, that he
Rose in his body to witness the sun as it set on the tribal
Boundary, over the disc at the ends of the earth as it sinks for
Hours as far as it can be envisioned, a sight for the restless
Soul that only a short time previous slept in the soil,
Waking in dust and becoming alive, is it strange to be breathless
After a slumber so lacking it, enraptured in merely the sight of
Sunlight, made it so hard to restrain tears – beauty is softly
Horrible, wholly invasive, demanding – might it be true, I
Witness and share all completely, and rarely intend to be lofty
Solely for loftiness’ sake, and as this man tends to describe all
Seen in his eyes with an eloquent flair for a purpose unknown, the
World to the dead man raised is so wonderful, strange, and reposed in
Color, all painted alive, and revealing in what it has shown me
That the degree of the miracle, raising the dead, is so much more
Wonderful from the revived’s viewpoint, as the process of shaping
Life in imagined descriptions created in visions of darkly
Cynical views of ourselves, the regression, or rather escaping,
Death is escaping ourselves, all the things to be should we remain this
Course as a golem receiving instruction, and fail to reflect in
Changes we wrought in our selfish endeavors, unrealized confessions,
Plans to improve, and our greatest desires, all things our protection
Keeps as its prisoner, that its demise is ensured by its safety,
Dying pristine as it could be, the fantasy never receiving
What trust must be bestowed to it that it is tested in merit,
That it is worthy of preserving, it perishes instead, for in leaving
Nothing to chance, we ensure all its roads lead down to its grave, the
Things we desire to save are the things we can never possess most:
Most of all, that of our own lives, which man tends to be frightened
Spending, and thus it is often the case man should nonetheless boast
Over the life he had lived, all for purposes which he regrets and
Things he refused to confess; though difficult, that ascertaining
This in the vivid displays of the sun as it dips in the distance
Over the lines the horizon begins with the washing, the raining
Down of the remnants of death with the water the river delivers
From a cascading return down toward the river again, gorged
Full of its share of debris, as if this is a final procedure
That is entailed in revival, a ritual washing of men forged
Solely for purposes like this, where the deceased is returned from
Cold earth, washes away all the soil in water, and freed of
What bound man to the grave, disinter all the sins in his spirit,
Ever-repentant and ever-alive, though truly in need of
Guidance, or might he return in successive performance to death’s door,
Having no life in him once, twice, thrice, or beyond, if he learns things
Having his soul in an instant rebound to his body as belt to
Garment, a loose-hitched girding as sadly bespoke as his earnings
Offered in tithe: an annoyance or phrase he prepares with a wink and
Nod of his head, and with half of a heart and dishonest intentions
Man is condemned, as the same execution is given for what he
Later expects; in a manner of speaking, the body’s dimensions
Show in its graphic detail all the sins we commit in its naked
Form, as the flesh is as much of a canvas as any, the outcome
Life grants greater response to the wrongs as the rights in its bloody
Vessel, considering what is displayed tells others about one
Whether we like it or not, it is strange to be washed of the vessel’s
Last imperfections and feel as if wounds are repaired in cascading
Water; behold, as if touched by an angel, the river in murky
Crimsons and wine-like color removes more than a pervading
Stain of a festering wound, and instead it regenerates what was
Permanent injury, where a respective affliction existed,
Once poured over with water, it fades as if merely a clod of
Soil or dried blood, though if indeed this water assisted
Natural processes such as recovery, what is the meaning
Being discovered in washing away wounds, sort of continued
From the revival as though the revival is barely begun, such
That this man born dead isn’t born yet, that he is issued
Body and soul through increments; pieces received for my body
Barely restored, and in some way still in its infancy, granted
Grace and forgiveness in what wounds come and incur in escaping
Abaddon, though for a time it’s concerning if whom I enchanted
Sees and bestows those mercies required to stumble along in
Shallow debut is aware of and watches in silence, deciding
When and whenever to loose the restraints on the body of this man
Given to arbitrary whims of the watching reviver residing
Where he remains to be seen, and if this man strikes him as being
Wasteful, unworthy, or showing no gratitude living again when
Over the course of the evening, he shows an inadequate living
Courtesy toward the watching reviver’s intent, as the engine
Raised to be nothing except that reason but known to him, that I
Might’ve fulfilled it already in being revived at all, giving
Purposeless life to the man born dead, and a whimsical charm to
These words, meaning as much as his life, though less if his living
Served some end at all; these words then are the same as he, that my
Life is as well born dead as the letters before thee, and therefore
This is regrettably wasted potential; as such, it is prudent
Now for a reader no longer continue; and though, if to care for
These words, this man, this third volume entails or requires
Reading on, then it is humbling to know thou art barely disturbed by
What was demanded above; and indeed, it is likely if such a
Watching reviver exists, should that be the case, to perturb my
Mind in a futile retreat of the mind is of interest; thus, to continue
Wakes in the soul the relief that only a truly repentant
Spirit espouses, expedient witness to some of the future
Deeds as presented in its time, in another description dependent
Though on the word as it comes to be written in letters to come, I
Speak and sincerely record in all time; to be seen is enough for
Now, as it proves in its way a sufficient response to the thought that
This man’s life is as nothing as no thing, as it would it be tough for
Life to continue as an interest where what life is in question
Questions the notion itself; if sincerity matters, immoral
Men would rarely exist, though truth is a good in itself, and
This man born dead speaks in his knowledge to wrestle, to quarrel
Vainly against these things, if indeed ascertaining truth has
Mattered if only to brandish an ego, perish it; if this is
Such an endeavor, the waters the Kidron consumes is enough at
Least to assure this man in his state of unknown and dismisses
Notions of creeping despair, or he would be as vapor, as wind, as
Vain as the vanities, though it is clearly the case if he rises
Merely to stumble, he wouldn’t regenerate through the cascading
Waters enveloping over him, such is his birth, and comprises
Greater symbolic reversals of cosmic upheaval, undoing
Order, as one of the prophets referred to it, this “uncreating,”
Signals a change in the world and of things to endure, and it thus has
Come to me sans explanation; so what is the Lord instigating?
wandering the desert • thankful for new life
toward the mountains • washing in the Kidron river
healed by the foul water • this is the beginning of uncreation