The call to Weaver, woven long in song,
As eerie creeps through depths so dark and vast,
Like Winter seeping into spine—so wrong—
To call our death as sure as summer's past.

On winter solstice, due for day unmade,
Then Weaver comes to play—and seeks the hide.
As seven monks from River Oath have strayed,
A tomb is built, a fortress tall and wide.

On summer solstice, debt in day repaid,
Then Weaver sings—and hides away the sick.
As seven monks from bone their flesh have shed,
The tomb is melted into mists They lick.

So, children, call for Weaver not in jest,
For They may stir beneath your bed from rest.