Wish is the feeling which gnaws at the core
And until it is fed enough, that which never stops.
Moving and making fate in its own process
Little less do we know, this is unpredictable than chess.
Luck is like a tide pulled by the moon,
Undulating through the undertow.
None can tell how far that wave might go,
Afloat upon the wash’s wind-blown foam.
Yet knowing well one’s wishes face the wind,
Even so, one does what one can do,
Alert to rituals that spirits woo,
Rendering what renders them benign.
Whether good or ill, the choice of fate.