Threads fragile, Threads discolored by time,
Wasted away, scattered by the lack of human touch.
Caught in the whirlpool of destiny,
Spin along the curvature of fate.
Gaining hues, getting reunited,
Shaping up, being woven into
what seems like a patchwork unfinished,
Abandoned by the finesse of some lass.
Picked by the Craftsman, Girdled around His fingers,
Bound to His Craftsmanship, giving way to a yarn.
A yarn woven to cover the wilderness
To sheathe the nude
For all that reflects
In this man-made world
Are masks and silhouettes
Attires hiding shame
Apparels covering greed
To project only beauty
That appeals to the eye
The eye that sees the surface
And shuns what is beneath.
