The moon lays down,
On the field with leaves full of grace.
Tis where the memories I've had earned,
Now, beyond my embrace.

In the loom, unseen,
the weaver rests their head,
for even in the makings of fate,
one tires, one always gets tired.

But one breathes deep,
With a worn out stare,
To marvel, not at the piece nor wool,
But at the threads they'll never wear.

And one sighs heavy
with a weary gaze;
to lament, not at their own misery,
but at the passing of insipid days.

But these does not tremble,
The little faith of their young.
They still dream of heroes and gold,
Not one inch of  forlorn love.

With light,
glowing gently
gilded in gold
giving gravity
grievance for
keeping them
grounded.

After breathing, one brings a smile.
Not from joke
but joy
Of the young laughing for miles.

And the hope in their eyes,
like a love that never dies,
is the reason for my solace.

For the peace of my mind,
And the insipid days that pass through,
I now marvel at the threads,
Now a piece that stays true.

Like the red thread of Fate,
of Kismet, of Destiny,
I am happy in your embrace.
I am happy here with you.

Now one rolls his sleeves,
Doing the work again,
Remembering the love of his fate,
Made him sew *again.