I sing praise to permanence, there is firmness beneath
my feet and when I stop I can lean.
I sing praise to the invulnerable world spirit, it always
forgets its fear, unbroken anew, unfathomable.
I sing praise to the depths of being, the more lonely the
risk, the nobler the exhaustion.
I sing praise to seeds, their rhythm is always the same,
they open and close and jealously transmit their secret.
I sing praise to the play of the spirit, it replicates
in endless haloes, tears loose from tangles, then
in soft tissue waits for a new manifestation.
I sing praise to gifts that visit us abruptly, one marvels
at the other, each of them startlingly short-lived.
I sing praise to truth, eternally new, it loves us
like a virgin bride, we pursue but never reach it.
I sing praise to astonishment, compressing and
exploding us, and to the bliss gently opening in it.
I sing praise of the finite, that sorrowful sister who
stands at the edge of the world, uncannily
calm and submissive.
I sing praise to waiting, it droops inside us like an ear of
overripe grain, silence is closest to fruition.
I sing praise to motion, which picks us up and always
sets us before a new mystery.
I sing praise to suffering, which renews us, we change in
jolts like wood crackling in a fire.
I sing praise to pain, which destroys the heart, blood
trickles to the ground, assurance bows its head.
I sing praise to bliss, at a loss for sheer sufficiency, an
uncanny suppleness enfolds and saturates us.
I sing praise to happiness, never in short supply,
we joyously babble and mindlessly spin, man is a child to be assuaged.
I sing praise to love, which stays to the last, the tiniest
bird singing a comforting song, I will never forget it again.