Disenchantment Flourishing in an Era

The Weaver's Dilemma

In a village draped in twilight's hue,
Where mountain whispers kissed the dew,
Lived an old weaver, known for her art,
Whose tapestries spoke from the heart.
Her loom, a relic of ancient lore,
Wove tales of magic and days of yore.

One autumn eve, the sky grew dark,
A stranger came, his eyes a spark.
He sought a tapestry bold and grand,
A vision of the future's new land.
The weaver hesitated, her heart unsure,
Yet gold was bright, and she was lured.

The loom was set, the threads unfurled,
To weave the world's new changing swirl.
Days turned to nights as she labored on,
Her heart grew heavy, magic gone.
The tapestry grew rich and bold,
Of cities and futures, stories sold.

The villagers
watched, both awe and fear,
As the new world's vision drew near.
But in her work, the old world slipped,
Her art transformed, her heart eclipsed.
The final thread was woven tight,
And the stranger claimed his prize that night.

Years rolled by, and stories grew,
Of the tapestry and the weaver's rue.
The village thrived in future's gleam,
Yet missed the magic of olden dreams.
The loom, now silent, waits in peace,
A relic of a time's release.

For in seeking the future's bright embrace,
We may lose the past's gentle grace.
The weaver's tale, though vivid and stark,
Is a reminder of the magic lost in the dark.