There once was a village seldom known,
Its darkness and its solitude,
Repelled the crowds and made them frown,
Cut the visitors to it by multitude,
In this village, on the edges was a hut,
Where a kind story weaver stayed,
The doors of her home remained tightly shut,
Only at times an appearance did she make,
Weaving an unique story like a cloak,
Sometimes about dragons, sometime huli jings,
Sometimes about the star crossed lovers she spoke,
She had stories about many things,
The words she uttered became scenes of pixie dust,
They spread over the gathering like a spell casted,
The people who heard her once,
Chose to return again and again,
To listen to her weave another tale,
They watched it happen as she spoke,
Not even a breathe could still be heard,
And thats how the village became infamous,
The weaver and her words shone bright in its darkness,
They came to listen to her weave…
Sometimes they left changed,
Sometimes they never left…
