I wyrded into the weavers nets
for all patterns and cobs
is as lingerie to a dress
for the missing details is ideas
an egg which hatches
in the spiders nest.
I am with its mother to listen
to the vibrato in strings
for so delicate touches
is as deadly as our tears drips
from venomous fangs
into fabrics of reality.
Yet who is Shú but a weaver
and I, garments woven
as Her Sheherazade
for every nights is there decided
which dawn springs anew
as dyes of horizons gates.
For that is the Mountain of tears
as it drops from our lips
encloses hearth to protect
the spider which in our chest is sat
to make for a holy place
where our spirits bonds. |