The weaver sits with knowing eyes,
Spinning threads as time drifts by.
A golden thread, a silver seam,
A path unknown, a fleeting dream.
No map to trace, no hand to steer,
Yet forward still, we persevere.
A lover’s touch, a fateful glance,
A life entwined in happenstance.
We chase, we turn, we laugh, we cry,
Beneath the ever-changing sky.
Fate may twist, it may surprise,
But hope still shines where shadows rise.
And when our thread is gently spun,
We leave behind the things we’ve done.
Not just the dark, not just the past—
But love and light, to ever last.
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