One afternoon a gypsy,
who long stalked on me,
tugged on my shirt,
asking if she could treat me with a read.
I replied in bold terms
that given the contingent event
that future could be told beforehand,
there was no point in my responding
whether in the end I would accept or rebut
a proposal whose result she claimed to own
however to me altogether unbeknown.
Without flinching, she said I couldn't possibly resist it.
I burst in laugh, repealing never and never
had I felt tempted at tampering with a business that
was of sole concern for a flock of planets.
In sum, she had been unfortunate in her fortunetelling,
so could she please release my sleeve and clear the way?
I saw then her recoiling in a clangor
of glaring veils and false gold,
only wondering what had gone wrong...
Yes, I lied to her, though it is late for self-serving repentance.
She had claimed that in all seamless fabric of time-space,
nothing could ever happen to her ignorance.
And I, a pedestrian Faust, would have gone in grace
if she had unveiled me a glance of what’s in stock,
were it fact, were it fraud.
But, on second thoughts,
I would lie time and again,
for, if I had consented, in the end,
I would have lost not only the argument,
but also, addition to my temper, the will
to believe in a free will.
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