O wise weaver,
In the dawn’s waking glow,
High upon your bed of silk
Still you are,
In your apathetic benevolence,
For you just are —
Giving and taking simultaneously,
For destruction and creation bear the same surname
Your green hair still, As the morning wind has yet to take flight; A silhouette I know too well — Rigid and free-flowing hips, Dancing thro...
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