The Weaver of the Forgotten Sky

🌌 The Weaver of the Forgotten Sky

In twilight’s hush, when stars are near,
There walks a soul we never hear.
She spins the threads that none can see,
And weaves the sky in mystery.

She’s known as Nara, long since gone,
A shadow cast before the dawn.
No records write her name in ink,
She lives within the thoughts we think.

She walks atop the whispering winds,
Through realms where time itself rescinds.
Her loom is made from shattered light,
Her hands are ghosted by the night.

She weaves the stars with silent thread,
Of stories lost, and dreams long dead.
Each twinkle in the velvet dome
Is just a soul who’s seeking home.

Beneath her feet, the galaxies
Turn softly in forgotten breeze.
Planets dance like marionettes,
Tied to threads of past regrets.

She weaves not joy, nor sorrow’s grief,
But what exists beyond belief—
The things we feel but never name,
The burning wish we can’t reclaim.

She stitched the laughter of a child
With echoes of a forest wild.
She blended tears of lovers passed
With every vow they swore would last.

She bound a soldier’s final breath
To lullabies he sang in death.
She stitched the fear of war’s first cry
With hopes that never learned to fly.

She does not speak, for words are weak.
The stars themselves are how she speaks.
Each constellation bears a tale
Of shattered love or hopes that fail.

But on one night, the weaver paused,
And stared below with silent cause.
For down on Earth, a boy had cried—
His dreams erased, his spirit died.

He'd watched the world strip light away,
His hope dissolved with each new day.
He whispered to the midnight sky:
"If someone hears me... tell me why."

His voice, though small, had reached her thread—
The line that binds the dreamer’s dread.
She bent the sky, she dimmed the stars,
She tore the silence from afar.

She wove a dream into his mind,
A world where broken ones still find—
A lantern lit, a hand held tight,
A voice that says, “You’ll be alright.”

She showed him seas with golden waves,
Where whispered names are never graves.
She built him wings from comet tails,
And taught his breath to fill the sails.

In sleep he flew, in dreams he soared,
With hope he’d long since given mourned.
When morning cracked the sky apart,
He woke with fire inside his heart.

He rose, not whole—but not alone.
A piece of sky had found a home.
And though he knew not where, or why—
He swore he'd thank the weaver’s sky.

And so, each night, she weaves anew
The unseen dreams of me and you.
She finds the threads we think are gone
And braids them into cosmic song.

For though she walks in silence deep,
She hears the prayers we dare not speak.
She gathers pain, and joy, and flame—
And weaves them back with gentle aim.

A thousand years may come and go,
But still she weaves in starry glow.
The cosmos bears her gentle art—
A map drawn from the human heart.

So next you stare into the night,
And wonder why the stars burn bright—
Know this: their glow, so far and high,
Was spun by hands that heard your cry.