She dries a tear With the back of her hand And gently lifts her swollen Son She feeds her daughter Instead "Try to sleep now, my Child," She whispers,"By God's Grace Mercy will meet us in the mornin' She's just running Late." Beauty from ash? Joy from grief? Is not Suffering Simply meant to be? What if we were to Throw our weight Against the thoroughbred Muscle of fate? What if we were to muster The gall To slap the "mind forged Manacles" of reason? Could we counter-sing the Song of sense? Could we plant and harvest Off season? Why not defy entropy? Why not taunt history Even though time insists It cannot reverse? Do We Dare Disturb The Universe?