Babies in cobweb baskets
Float upon a sea of tears
Arachnoid overseers weaving,weaving.
One for each, one for each, they sing.
Unfilled glorious chalices
Hidden in the dust and grime
Of the old, of the outworn
Murky thoughts of the ancestors.
Juvenile warriors raise their swords
To sever the pitch black cocoons
To release and fill, the precious metal cups
With refreshing newness and life.
Yet spiders never rest
They weave and they weave
And moss does grow on a rolling stone
And rust grows on silver and gold.