My lover sings my praise like am a king back from war
She sings it without season
Her praises makes me proud

But then, I felt weary of her self-made panegyrics for me
I felt they were bricks of praises were made by the dust of the irony
Of my ability

One night, I and my lover
Sat staring at the moon and stars
Their twinkling gave her inspiration
Of the next praise to sing

Then she began
Singing my praises to the stars
The praises made me egocentric
I loved the starting
She called me the Sirius
Saying she saw me
In the constellation of the stars

It was then I remembered
My thoughts
That thought that all she said was an irony, a...