Weaver of Worlds

She sits before her loom, 
Her hands flicking,
Noisy within the silent room,
From thread to thread ticking.
She rouses the colors, the dark and bright,
And weaves a world of gold and sunlight.

She sits before her loom,
Her hands spinning,
Making threads lift and bloom,
The thread slowly thinning.
She rouses the colors, the bright and dark,
And weaves a world of war and fire-spark.

She sits before her loom,
Her hands turning,
Waking a solemn perfume
From the cloth a-burning.
She rouses the colors, the fierce and pale,
And weaves a world where white ships sail.

She sits before her loom,
Her hands weaving,
And makes the oceans boom
On some cloth beyond believing.
She rouses the colors, the pale and fierce,
And weaves a world where thorns the flesh pierce.

And who can say, but far from here,
A world on the loom
Does not live and dance, and see and hear,
Its glories come to bloom?
She rouses the colors, the weak and strong,
And weaves worlds out of story and song.