That animal who judges
wraps itself with weight,
who sees, blindly, its own versions
of that notion, fate.

If divinity had a plan,
t'would not be 'fore the flowers,
proceeded, wrecklessly, to 'pense
their friend, the baby worm.

What is there, then, to say,
that company should need?
Pray, perhaps, a happy rain,
or a day with which to wait?