the moment of our birth, you said,
is frozen under a canopy of sky
where the universe of stars and moons
and worlds of fire and earth and water
trace in infinity's script
the map to our ends.
our destiny is threaded
in a chain of stars, a necklace of moons,
a clasp of capricious Fate.

the night wind might as well bear
the whispers of conspriring stars,
but at our birth, the sky is silent,
and throughout our mapped life,
we alone cry our tears,
or laugh to the heavens;
the stars, conspiring and capricious,
remain silent.