Clotho of the Moirae

The Pain of the Maker

I spin each thread with boundless care

As though it were mine own

With love and grace and magnitude

A life as yet unknown

Each cosmic fibre is replete

Within uncounted odds

I may not limit nor renege

When gifting from the gods

And yet I cannot own nor run

Its length nor breadth nor gait

As thistledown I cast if free

To ride the winds of fate

My sisters arm may hold it high

To soar and dip and furl

My sisters knife my slice it bare

And to the earth return

And so I make again again

Not knowing what will last

But knowing that to cease would be

The end of you

The end of me

ã Clotho Speaks 19 Sept 2008