Life can be determinately expressed
as a destined framework —
a self-created spider web,
woven by the trembling hands of the soul,
between the unseen pillars of time and breath.
Each strand shimmers —
fragile, uncertain, alive.
It glistens in morning dew,
then trembles in the storm of moments,
unstable every heartbeat,
ever trembling in the winds of change.
It is non-everlasting forever —
a paradox the spirit must endure,
for every glimmer fades,
and yet the web remains in memory,
woven anew in the silence of being.
Ever-changing in shape or structure,
the web dances with unseen forces —
touch, thought, chance, choice —
its pattern redrawn
by the invisible brush of circumstance.
Unforeseen are its happenings,
unforecasted its occurrences;
the spider does not know
which fly will come,
nor when the storm will tear
its silent labor apart.
Hidden within lie undetected barriers,
threads of danger unseen —
they bind and protect,
ensnare and release,
each shimmering with the mystery
of what cannot be known.
Unestimated, unplanned,
its schedule follows no clock,
for time itself is caught in the weave —
a captive thread trembling
under eternity’s gaze.
Unadjustable in existence,
it must hang as it is —
between birth and death,
between light and void,
between knowing and the unknowable.
Non-destinable in environment,
the web stretches where chance allows,
not where desire commands —
it clings to what is,
not to what should be.
Impermanent in nature,
it echoes the truth of all things:
what is born must dissolve,
what rises must fall,
what breathes must return to stillness.
Unknowledgeable in everything,
the weaver itself cannot see
the full pattern of its making —
for every silk spun
is both a question and a prayer.
Full of unanswered questions of the self,
each thread hums with the ache of meaning:
Who am I?
Why do I weave?
What lies beyond the web I’ve spun?
Filled with unimaginable events of occurrence,
each trembling line holds
a thousand unforeseen reflections —
the light of joy,
the shadow of sorrow,
the flicker of revelation.
Containing undreamed-of happenings,
it moves where vision cannot follow,
a choreography of mystery
that only the soul can sense.
Fragile in every aspect of life,
one touch of fate,
one sigh of impermanence —
and it shatters into the silence
from which it came.
Yet it is inescapable from death,
for the web’s end is written
in the first thread spun —
and so, it travels toward death
not in despair, but in devotion,
returning to the eternal loom
from which all webs are born.
So weave, O spirit,
knowing your silk is holy.
Weave, though storms will come.
Weave, though endings await.
For in the trembling of your web
is the divine design —
the sacred truth
that life itself is the weaving,
and the weaver, and the web.
