The Man Who Weaved in Silence

He sat beside the loom each day,
his hands already knew the way
no need for words, no need for light,
just thread pulled taut from left to right.
The room was dim, the wood was old,
the stories woven, never told,
each row a thought, each pass a breath,
a life built slowly, thread by thread.
He wore his glasses, held his tool,
a patient man, no haste, no fool
for cloth takes time, and so does peace,
and so does anything of worth.
The loom clicked on.
The man stayed still.
Outside, the world spun fast
but here, he wove against the rush,
and made of silence
something that would last.

Object number
015.2026.04