The Weaver

You have not weaved 

By hands carrying satin

A veil 

That's soft as bed sheets 

Suffused and smelt 

Like lotions.

You didn't build a plane 

From sands lying by your feet.

The devilish lines on your palms never conjoined 

Rail tracks on a verge 

to open grassland 

But sat near the window pane

Through theaters of love 

Looking at the better past. 

You were just a girl-

Caught fireflies to store their light on a page

Cut short their life

To paint yours.