Seven sit threading needles by candlelight
their eyes dark, their hands in shadow
moving with the flame, the dripping wax
whispering as with one voice of things hidden
The tapestry they weave grows longer with the night
and they watch out the window
waiting for first light to break over the hills
hoping it will be too weak to chase away the shadows
too dim to cast silhouettes of their souls
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Tax the rich or eat the rich, the choice is yours.
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Photo by amirali mirhashemian on Unsplash
I bet they taste bitter.
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I bet you’re right!
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beautiful poetry!
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Thank you (:
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It’s not often I do a fist-pump or shout ‘hell yeah!’ at the end of reading a poem, but this one did the trick.
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✊
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Glad it worked! Cheers (:
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