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Counting spider webs and weaving numbers in a dark corner,
There she sits, my little girl, with her back forever to me.
Resolved to keep me at a distance, never do I see her face.
But her hands are always busy spinning and threading, weaving and crafting, making a tangle.
I can hear her words, a mumble, a humming whisper.
Finally they are crawling out, but what a pity they had to come when she is so numb and unfeeling.
Free from her fetish for cleanliness, she sits in her corner, furiously creating a net to catch the dust.
It all seems terrifying, yet serene.
But she never stands to brush the sands of time from her hair,
Nor does she ever turn her downcast eyes toward me to confirm my presence.
Oh, she knows, is well aware, I am always here, for she will always be there.
I am chained to everything I tried to leave behind and tortured by whatever it was that I always denied.
Talk to me, little girl, tell me what you know:
Simple faith and savage superstition.
At six years old I see the wrinkles on your forehead.
People my call you crazy; crazy calls you clever.
No, shell not stop her work of spinning silver threads.
Shall I always sit here and watch her possession?
Or be carried away by the millions of spiders,
Creatures never so beautiful as when their innocence was stolen,
Millions of spiders, creeping away from her corner as she steals their magic.
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