A weaver at her treadle sits.
Weaving thread with aching hands,
Until it's done she never quits.

To endless work she still commits,
Though calls she hears from distant lands,
A weaver at her treadle sits.

The colors blend in perfect fit,
Form leaping waves and shifting sands,
Until it's done she never quits.

Though years have passed with no assist,
And unwoven still are many strands,
A weaver at her treadle sits.

Why does she to the loom submit?
The task will all her life demand,
But the weaver at her treadle sits,
And until it's done she never quits.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Glacian, in the year 857 AF.