In a small village, with fields and the sun,
Lived Amalia, whose weaving was never done.
Her house so vibrant, painted in hue,
Where thread and needle created something new.
No simple fabrics, oh, she was much more,
In every warp, she wove dreams to adore.
Stories, and wishes, that a soul would confess,
Amalia the mage, with sweet masterful finesse.
Oh, the Weaver's Tapestry,
A canvas where time flows free.
Silk mountains high, rivers of bright glass,
The future's own magic that forever will last.
Follow the thread, follow the
thread, never fear the sight,
For the golden hope path will
guide you through the night.
One evening, came Clara, with honey-filled eyes,
She asked to see her future
beneath the twilight skies.
"Weave, Amalia, a future I can understand,
For my hidden path I want to find in this land."
The weaver just smiled, accepting the plight,
She chose hues for the sky just before dark night.
Threads that kept shifting, dancing with grace,
The tapestry woke up, filling the space.
Suddenly, the pictures
shifted, a view cold and stark,
A gloomy forest, swallowed by the dark.
A solitary tower, shrouded in black mist,
A warning in the fabric, a truth that persisted.
Amalia felt sadness, but Clara stood tall,
"How do I face this?", she
asked, standing overall.
Inspired by the girl, her spirit so keen,
Amalia added a detail, a subtle, bright scene.
She took strands of gold, that shone without end,
Wove a pathway that starts
from the garden, my friend,
Winding through the shadows,
reaching the high keep,
A symbol of the light that
wakes you from your sleep.
Days and nights sped by, the great work was done,
The map of the soul, beneath the rising sun.
"Your future is changing,
like the thread that you see,
But the golden thread, follow it faithfully.
Courage and hope, your compass they will be."
Clara left with joy, knowing victory.
And Amalia kept weaving in
her house of bright beams.