She is a thin rod of wool, colorful.
Today she’ll be woven into a sad blanket,
and she’ll live with the other textiles;
waiting to be picked, chosen.
She’ll live with a man, he’ll use her in the kitchen, as the object she is.
he’ll use her in the kitchen, as the object she is.
as the object she is.
When her wool will lose its strength,
I dread what will happen to her.
I wish I could change her destiny.
What can I do? I’m just an old weaver.