Once, Winter summoned her Weaver and said,
"Weaver, my turn comes to take the world.
I am not Summer, to warm on days good
And burn on days that he feels scorn
Nor am I spring, the Herald of Beginnings,
Life and Magic
I am not Rain, to wash the filth of the heart
To feed gentle, the seeds sown in season
And Autumn may be the only companion
Who knows what it is to carry
Death in your touch.
Weaver, but I am hurt that I'm Decay
The Ender of Things
Champion of Frost
And have only a sense of Gloom to offer
Please dress me, then, in such beauty
That the world embraces
Absence, with the same longing
Of that for a long-lost love;
That the misery lights in them
A hearth of Hope for the next;
That I am only a part of the cycle
And the wheel shall always keep turning."
The Weaver, Winter's
Spun a cape of Wishes
That kept his Queen's fire safe
To be passed on
To Spring and her Clothes Master.