In a tranquil corner, where shadows dance,
A modest machine hangs tight for its opportunity.
With a delicate whirr and a cadenced murmur,
It winds around dreams with each join it plumbs.
Strings of time and texture weave,
Creating stories in each line.
From fragile trim to strong creases,
It rejuvenates a universe of dreams.
With gifted hands directing its way,
It lines together the consequence
Of affection and misfortune, delight and distress,
Making an embroidery for later.
In the quiet of the evening, it sings,
Of failed to remember stories and mystery things.
Each needle's prick a murmured request,
To retouch the heart's delicacy.
Its foot pedal, a consistent beat,
An orchestra of development, complete.
As texture meets needle with delicate consideration,
It shapes a bond unparalleled.
Gracious, sewing machine, a quiet dream,
In your presence, we won't ever lose
The wizardry of creation, unadulterated and valid,
As you make our dreams visible.
Along these lines, let us honor this machine divine,
A channel for workmanship, a vessel for plan.
For in its fastens, we get comfortable with ourselves,
In each crease, we cheer.
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