I wish to  be the  Weaver of Light,
to  gather  whispers from the void,
making thoughts to spin  into golden thread.
Do stars protest the names they’re given,
unknown to them, yet spoken loud?
Does the ocean mourn for waves absorbed,
as tides reclaim them from the crowd?
Let them dance in fleeting shadows,
wear crowns of mist that fade with dawn.
For time is never deceived by echoes;
what’s truly made is never gone.
So I weave on, unseen but  certain,
my magic stitched in every seam.
For hands that craft the world’s great wonders
hold power far beyond their dream.