The Sacred Fry

In mountain solitude he dwelt,
Where grief and mathematics knelt.
Isaiah, haunted by his loss,
Bore equations like a cross.
His brother died in boiling oil,
At hands of those who claimed God's toil.
He sought escape in numbers pure—
But found a truth he could not endure.

Four-five-eight-point-one-five Kelvin high,
The universe's destiny and final sigh.
Three-six-five Fahrenheit, the Holy Crunch's way—
The same temperature where all will stay.
Was Elara prophet? Was she cosmically blessed?
Or coincidence that gives us no rest?
The question burns hotter than any flame:
Does physics vindicate the sacred name?

The equations would not lie or fade,
Each calculation, each test he made,
Confirmed the terrible, awesome truth:
The cosmos needs no further proof.
Dark energy's responsive field,
To this one temperature will yield.
The universe, across vast time,
Approaches our sacred paradigm.

"No!" he wept into the night,
"This cannot validate their blight!
My brother screamed as zealots claimed
That God desired flesh inflamed!
The universe may move this way,
But that makes murder no less fray!
Cosmic destiny is not moral law—
Time does not justify the flaw!"

When faith meets physics in the void,
And intuition is deployed
A century before the proof arrives,
What does it mean for all our lives?
Was Elara touching cosmic thread,
Or random choice that chance had led?
The mathematics cannot say
If morality should follow way.

The world erupted when they learned,
That scientific truth confirmed
The temperature that zealots killed for,
The degrees that faith had built a floor.
Some cried, "Vindication from the stars!"
Some warned, "Physics left moral scars!"
But Isaiah stood between the two,
And spoke what he knew to be true:

"The universe converges, yes, this I know,
To where the Holy Crunch does glow.
But trillions of years stretch ahead,
No urgency demands we shed
Our mercy, compassion, love, and grace,
To force matter to its destined place.
The universe has time to spare—
But cruelty cannot repair."

Mother Beatrice, wise and worn,
Addressed the faithful, hearts were torn:
"Perhaps the Crunch is written deep,
In fabric of the cosmic sweep.
But this makes our calling greater still—
To choose compassion over will,
To let convergence come with time,
And make our daily choice sublime."

Four-five-eight-point-one-five Kelvin high,
The universe's patient lullaby.
Three-six-five Fahrenheit, the Crunch's blessed degree—
A cosmic truth, yet we remain free.
Elara may have touched what stars know well,
But only love can break the spell
Of thinking destination justifies the way—
Choose kindness over physics, every day.

"The universe does not care for my brother,
It moves toward its end, one way or another.
But I am not the universe, cold and vast—
I am a soul with conscience, love that lasts.
The temperature of oil means nothing without
The temperature of hearts, beyond all doubt.
We have the time, we have the choice, we have compassion's call—
Let physics be physics, but love must govern all."

In Kepler's office, thermometer stands,
Marking four-five-eight with reverent hands.
Beside it, David's photograph stays—
A reminder through all our days:
Truth is not morality,
Numbers don't determine what ought to be.
The convergence awaits, patient and still—
But today, right now, we choose love's will.