She weaves the world with gnarled fingers,
gazing lovingly at the cloth with beautiful thread.
By the fireplace her shuttle and weave forever linger.
As she weaves, she stops to rest her hands and head
and the world begins weaving itself in her stead.
Shuttling back and forth; red, black, and grey
and the perfect cloth falls into decay.
As the world is filled with violence, lies, and murder,
the woman turns her head, weaving no further.
Her divine work, no longer at bay,
is weaving itself like living clay.
She rises up and cries, "The world's corrupt,
and paradise lives no longer;
it's turned to vicious ways and deceitful slander!
Could it ever find peace, perhaps,
inside the burning yonder?"
She tears away the weft, unfinished as it is,
and in a sudden haze
the weaver throws the world and its fiendish cloth,
into the fiery blaze.
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