Tis the eager folly of mortal man
To think the bend of nature is not yet done;
To slay the prescient pomp of Destiny
And believe Free Will is a right he’s won
Would that Apollo yield his cruel curse
And turn disbelieving ears to Cassandra’s tongue,
To know the bit of truth held in her words
Shall being wisdom before Fate’s bell has rung
So let the wretched daughter of Priam speak,
Indeed, to this capricious tribe of man;
A prophetess with the future sight one seeks,
Now armed to battle Life’s hurdles ‘forehand.
But to toil in effort to avoid one’s lot
Makes quite a less than noble epitaph
And bores like a tale when one knows the plot
Or a game ‘gainst an adversary’s telegraph.
Instead, every loop of the weaver’s loom
Give to man, so he may call the stitch his own,
To thread a web of life from the womb to tomb
Like a garland for to decorate his throne.
Then turn him out to navigate Life’s sea
Until the boatman requests the coin he’s due;
Full sail with the wind of a will that’s free
To set upon adventure at horizon’s view.