Each temporal wonder that Genius crafts
In Heaven’s bustling forge
Is a Miracle born that none may scorn,
The Bounty and the Scourge
Bear a Valence that holds all in Balance,
And on which all might gorge.
Neath the rose’ bright, scented petals
Lie tracks of baleful thorn,
And perhaps ‘tis right that Beauty’s bite
Is appointed so to warn
Nature’s profession allows no concession,
From the zephyrs are typhoons born.
Thus Synergy provides the Staff of Life,
Each species’ viand is herb or meat,
So the Ordained way that aught be Prey
Should appeal to minds aesthete,
And none complain of metastatic pain
As Cancer, too, must eat.