I praise you in the midst of a troubled epoch.
While praising conjures upon loving.
And loving settles upon thirst.
I praise you in the midst
of an agitated population.
Where you sit on a stool of devotion.
And I dream on a bed
of sentimental pollution.
I praise you in the midst
of a distressed circle.
When we go round,
spinning in a fitted constipation.
And we pound hard.
But we spin harder
than pounding hard.
As if the spinning beats the hurting.
As if I hurt you
with a visionary thinking.
Not as if you pain me
with a tainted stare.
Not as if you
eradicate my belief.
Not as if you
were all the waterfalls
that made me roar.