Her hands weave them
yet her body has never felt its silken grace
Her dreams are warm winter nights
Her plight is cold porridge
The magic of her gentle threads
Has lit flames in many a beds
Her's is a cotton worn out sheet
A pillow of stuffed rugs
Yet she sees the ply, with utmost care
What feeds her may never be her's to wear
Yet as all vagabond poets and street artists
She can dream
A dream is all her strength
Often to weave the best, to hem them
And she shall, forever be at it
Until her eyes and hands are able
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