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O Lonely Weaver

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We all meet you in the end.
You visit each and every one of us.
Your cool touch is felt by the smallest of creatures
To the largest of behemoths.
None can escape encountering you.

Not many though
Can walk your lands
Covered in golden brilliant wheat
And visit you
In your small home.

Even more would not know
That until you have to leave
And embrace yet another soul
To grow amongst your field
That you sit in front of a fire
Knitting and humming.

Your skeletal hands,
Small but strong,
Weave the ends of many tales
Yet rarely get to experience
A story of your own.

Yet you never complain
About your purpose,
Loving all that come here
And guiding those willing
And unwilling
To their resting place.

May someday more
Get to arrive in your fire-heated house
And be greeted like a long lost relative
So that you may too
Feel lonely no longer,
Mother Death.