Needles working on a piece of white cloth.
But you can't see the hands,
A thread broken-
"It needs to be mended"-
But no one hears the call.
The weaver stop at his work,
Looks over beyond his tapestry,
There are threads all around
But forgets which one to pick.
The house is empty,
Though the kettle hissing now and then,
No one to talk to,
The threads are lying all around
But have turned brittle without care.