The Weaver Of Fate
Neither call nor silence nor sleep have a threshold
Whereon your walk ceases and becomes flight or fall.
The song of a child is so faint and seems to rise
From the source of your pride.
Path is shine, not passage.
And if ever you drink from the Fountain of Age,
A voice shall sing to you your song, secret and low,
But its mouth shall be one of night and of sorrow.
As a steady weaver, I fetter, thread by thread,
The vibrating star which the watcher will desert.
Legend on the alert, do I serve gloomy grudge?
I'll expose to the view of the summoning judge
The frayed void in witness of my triumphant work.