Moire called by the Greeks, the Roman Fates, Norns by the Vikings ...
it comes time
it comes to listening in
it comes to weaving the thread with our whole existence
not dear to me was this lonely hill
but hedges by a gentle sigh, which tends to you, oh my infinite
that pours into thin threads of experience
like cotton candy or sour gall
in goat hair shaggy and untamed
I see myself in that of bleating sheep and the shepherds turn condescending
dear I was driving the wolf and ammonium
its fangs
Spartan faithful of my truth or truth as a value if you want
harder path, the greater the reward to daring
groped
dare dare dare miss
able
the tapestry is made of many nodes
and only at the end you will understand the design that hides
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