It's something that didn't exist before,
What is born of nothing but desire to know,
Not knowledge itself, that crystal absorber,
But what makes itself, a God of sorts, whole
In the spiral curl of the recursive
Experience re-inferred, like fresh breath
What was old, once, now pure, and to be lived
In the rhythm that is love. It's the path
Of visible, not rooted, light, that drops
Its aromatic leaves, a gleaming crop
For the new yield from the darkness. The seeds
Must foster a further reality
For spirits to bear responsibility—
It's called freedom, what the universe needs.
