We are products of melting,
sloughed from the purest ore,
dismissing what insults our own souls.

Tonight, as the dark shroud of heaven covers the earth,
the mother with child will kneel, asking, Why must I be your servant?
And a sister will say, You are blessed among women.

As a light seeks to pierce the blackened reaches,
the boy rises, and asks, Why must I go?
And a father answers, No one else will.

As the lonely shadows grasp along the land,
the man asks, Why must we learn to die?
And another counters, What is God’s will?

Tomorrow, as the old man rises to greet the spilling gray dawn,
he asks, Why?
And is greeted with nothing but the rain.

We are products of melting;
if we knew, we would be God.
And as the Multiverse asks the question, it shudders under the weight.