Praise to the Avatar of this waning earth.

Who sees all through a sun-woven eye.

Who lives for each in deathless rebirth.

Who loves the single one without remove.

Who stands indifferent to all, in noble silence.

Who IS all.

Praise, I say! With my many friends in this river.

Praise to that Giver of the Law that unbinds.

Compassionate. Merciful. Merciless in Love.

Praise to the Maker of the conscious Heart.

Praise.

Adoration.

Praise.

*******

But... why praise?, say man and woman.

Is what IS a thing that can be praised? Or should be?

Oh no. No, said the river stones:

Praise only if you're dying,

like all of us.

Praise only if you've slapped away like a fatuous housefly

your great fool's burden of effort.

Praise only if your debt runs so deep

that to pay it you must go even deeper.

Praise only if the one who lives you

lives on.

Or, good human—

if praise is yet beyond you,

remember what it was He said

to pass on to yourselves, one ear to the next,

as though it were the mother of all secrets

on that languid afternoon: