£îƒé WéåvîñG

Life is like a weaving,
I choose the colors,
And work it steadily.
Sometimes I weave sorrow,
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget to see the upper,
And see only, the underside.



Not till the loom is silent,
And shuttles cease to fly,
Will I unroll the tapestry
And know the reasons why.
But dark threads are as needful
In a skillful Weaver's plan,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern we have planned.

origional poem, anonymous
re-written by MéåðøW ßîrð§øñG
all rights reserved

Feburary 5, 2001