This poem is called "Prayer."
"My system is ruined by foreign pathogens blooming.
I call it, more or less, blood created for me.
Creator, should I call it you?
I don't dream or rest.
On this exhausted circuit, I'm in pursuit.
Better to forget.
Keep trying.
Do simply until done.
There's no water here, but life is.
Sun and Moon thread this ground, the walk, the weaving.
If I get another life, complaints will be missing,
fused phases arcing, sudden and temporary,
soundbites for short films."