It was I who once wove the cloth of dreams,
Merriment was the weft and haft and desire
Was quenched at each pass of the shuttle.
My feet on the peddles danced a dance
Of fantasy – a dance amidst clouds in a starlit sky.
The sound of cloth forming whispers secrets
And laughter, the fresh, crisp patterns
Delightful scenes upon my eye.
But now the loom is broken – only tattered rags remain
The only sound a mournful silence and the shattered frame
That once supported weft and haft is now
Not much more than splinters.
And 'midst it all the stilled shuttle lies –
A dusty oddment by a forgotten door,
Silent testament that I shall weave no more.