There was a weaver, old and wise,
Who spent her days beneath the skies.
Her loom was worn, her fingers slow,
Yet she wove patterns no one could know.

She worked in silence, her face serene,
Creating tapestries never seen.
Each thread a life, each knot a choice,
Each weave a whisper, a silent voice.

One day a traveler, lost and cold,
Came upon the weaver, stories untold.
"Why do you weave, and who do you serve?
What is the meaning, what is your nerve?"

The weaver smiled, her eyes so kind,
"Each thread I weave is tied to the mind.
In every piece, a life unfurls,
A tapestry of the world's great swirls."

"But how can you know what will appear?"
The traveler asked, with doubt and fear.
"For life is chaos, random and wild,
How can you make sense of a world so riled?"

The weaver replied, with hands so sure,
"The threads you see are part of the cure.
For every life, no matter how torn,
Is woven together, from when we are born."

She paused, then continued with care,
"Each moment a thread, each decision a prayer.
Though the paths may twist, though the roads may bend,
It's the choices we make that will never end."

The traveler pondered, his heart still cold,
Wondering if the weaver's truth was bold.
"The threads you speak of, they fray and break,
What of the times we can't forsake?"

The weaver nodded, her hands slow and calm,
"Even broken threads can bring a balm.
For the tears in the fabric make it whole,
Each broken piece a story untold."

"The pattern changes, but it remains,
For through every loss, there are gains.
And through every knot, through every fall,
The tapestry grows, after it all."

The traveler stood, a tear in his eye,
For in the weaver's words, he saw no lie.
He saw his life, the threads of pain,
But now he saw the light in the rain.

"The tapestry, the threads you weave,
Are the lives we touch, the lives we leave.
For it is not the ending that matters most,
But the love we share, and the lives we boast."

And as the traveler turned to go,
The weaver's loom began to glow.
For in the fabric, deep and wide,
He saw his own life, woven inside.

And now he knew, with heart so free,
That every thread is meant to be.
The weaver's hand, the traveler's thread,
Are all connected, life and death.