The child was weaving
A strange and terrible pattern,
Beyond his conceiving
In the stark room of a slattern.
His eyes never strayed
From the taut web of his making;
He was not dismayed
Though his little hands were shaking.
Yet he kept weaving
The dark and horrible design;
He had no believing,
But the silken skeins were thin and fine.
The child was tired,
Yet his fingers flew fast as birds;
His cheeks were fired.
Still his trembling lips spoke no words.
“What are you weaving?”
A stranger aked with quickened breath.
Without deceiving
The child replied: “I weave my death.”
