Bless me, O Banyan tree
Not a day have I missed
lighting a lamp at your feet
Your roots thirst for water
even as they rot beneath you.
Yet I come empty handed
seeking blessings from you.
I know you are dying.
Bless me before you go.
Let this tiny lamp
light your final peace.
Somewhere nearby, an AC hums.
A chainsaw waits for Monday.
And a child wraps cloth around her face to ride to school in 48-degree heat.
The tree doesn't curse us.
Neither do the birds that quietly vanish from its branches.
They sense what we don't.
It just stops giving shade.
Stops exhaling.
Stops holding the soil together. Quietly. Without drama.
We call that development.
The lamp still flickers at its feet.
Devotion intact. Conscience outsourced to God.
Is there a word for worshipping what you're destroying?
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