Patiently I weave, my body spins the thread
that through its art and through its death will keep
creative soul and mortal body fed.
Shuddering, it calls me as it dies,
my silken, lovely, sudden-tattered shred,
and in its former glory, I bind our prize.
Perhaps it seems I hold creation cheap,
yet I must live. Therefore I sew, and reap.
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