The Weaver’s Dream

Amidst the green where laughter lingers, frolics tumbles through dappled dales, where suns a-drowse bathe shadows into mirth. Restlessly rippling, the stream hums the tune of a bygone narrative. A wisp of wind whispers secrets that slip and slide through knotted grass, a tale only the moon has heard, which she laughs at in the night. Veins of murmurs, pulsating with the pathos of the earth's weeping bosom, do swirl the weight of ages, and yonder a swan serenades the echoes of a sorrowed wing, a melody spun every eve 'neath the celestial veil. A glimpse, a wink, and it nappens, that fleeting wonder, the magic of those glistening orbs caught in the tapestry of twilight and the echoes of ancient dreams. Those elusive dreams that embroidered the threads of the mystic tapestry. 'Tis all there in the eternal tapestry, the voices of long-forgotten lovers and the lapping tide of Time's own lullaby, the whispers of joy, of solace, of anguish, a soliloquy so vast that none can comprehend its entire expanse, yet hushed in the tender embrace of a single moment.