The fireplace casts a shadow of her slumped figure
The oil lamp illuminates her features lined with age
Her benevolent face concentrates into the void
Her empty hands move delicately with skill
And I asked her, what she was doing
She replies:
"I am but weaving my dream."
The strands of gold and silver I can all but see
The worn needles rest invisibly on her jaded hands
The beautiful patterns were one of a kind
The delicate material was fit for a king
And I asked her, what she was doing
She replies:
"I am but weaving my dream."
The seconds tick by with a dreadful sound
The charred firewood slowly crumbles
Here sits a lady whose life would not be long
Whose weaving was far from done
And I asked her, what she was doing
She replies:
"I am but weaving my dream." |
Submission Name: Dream
