The Gorshire Weaver

By: Amalia Posted on: July 05, 2005

She took the fabric softly,
And patterned out the hem;
And put a needle through the cloth
In and out again.

The look was purely simple,
Yet practical and full
And she made sure with every stitch,
The fabric would not pull.

Across and down, in and out
So gracefully, with care…
And she made sure, that what she wove,
The little ones would wear.

Sinoi had a mission:
A mission full of shame
To clothe the young ones of the world
No matter what their name.

To teach them all humility,
To know that they were bare,
She preached of sensibility,
A sermon they could wear.

Sinoi, poor Sinoi,
None could know her pain..
And the scars she hid from all the world,
And the cloth that kept her sane.

Long ago, she learned to hate,
The Imp-Lord and his crew,
When they had come to Gorshire,
The grass was wet with dew.

They carried flaming torches,
And pitchforks, clubs and whips,
And they proclaimed that they would dine
On Pixie Corpse tonight.

She got up rather quickly,
And softly locked the door,
When she heard marching, on the road,
And a voice like a wounded boar:

It sang unto the darkness,
And rang inside her shack,
"Open now, or I shall burn,
Your house to cinders, black."

Before she could answer,
Before she made a sound,
And orange glow, through her window,
And the flames licked all around.
She awoke to darkness,
The smoke still filled her lungs,
She climbed from the cellar,
On dirty, blackened rungs.

Dawn was swiftly breaking,
Its rosy fingers spread
Across the land, and through the room
And on her dirtied head.

The window glass was all around
It sparkled in the light…
And as she bent to pick it up,
Her cries rang through the night.

Her skin was scarred and buned,
Her hair was frayed and torn
And on that night, she picked the cloth
The weaver, first, was born.