Sonnet 31

There's almost nothing to a virus core,
a tiny bit of self-preserving code
inside a simple protein-patterned coat,
dead 'til interpreted, math and no more;
and yet these tiny refutations show
(counterexemplifying human hopes)
that secret keys of life are held by those
whom we can't see, predict, force or cajole.
   How far beyond our sight our world extends!
   but once we know that human vision ends
   far short of fact, we face a choice:
   which off-stage chorus shall command our voice?
   To those we meet, shall we be kind
   or virulent? with life, or death, aligned?