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.





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