The weaver wears the night like a cape
and twirls the stars into her hair.
Her lips still boast of
a goddess’ curse,
a remnant of her mother’s pride.
The weaver spins the stories of old,
bright tales of rainbows bold
and gods more cruel than man.
Pallas sits in parlors,
her patron now,
but sins of pride
not even time
may unravel.