WEBVTT
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Arachne
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Between the four realms,
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between the earth, the sea, the sky and the land beneath,
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in the place where all four meet,
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everything can be seen and heard.
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In that place there is a tower.
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It is always open.
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It has countless apertures:
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windows and doorless doorways.
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It is built of echoing bronze,
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which amplifies the words brought on the wind.
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There is no quiet there, no silence in any part,
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always can be heard murmurings,
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like the sound of the sea’s waves heard at a distance.
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This is the House of Rumour.
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A host inhabit this hall,
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a shadowy throng of words that flit about.
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They meet, they spawn young who grow and grow until their moment comes and then they’re gone.
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Here live:
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gossip;
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vicious slander;
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ugly truth.
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Rumour herself sees and hears everything,
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she encourages the journeys of these travellers.
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Through the House of Rumour came the story of a Lydian woman,
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whose skill at the loom surpassed all others.
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This Arachne was not of noble blood,
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she was no princess.
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Her fame came from her skill.
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It was said she wove such vivid images into her tapestries
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that even the bright immortals gasped to see their acts depicted so vividly before them.
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The story of Arachne’s skill reached the eyes of owl-eyed Athene,
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the goddess of war and wisdom,
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and she snorted with indignation.
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Some mere mortal, outweaving her!
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She who had invented the loom and the spindle and the shuttle and all the women’s arts.
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And had this Arachne ever given thanks for her gift?
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Had she ever made sacrifices to the goddess?
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Never!
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Athene strapped on her sandals of untarnishing gold,
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she seized her spear,
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she flashed down out of the sky to the Kingdom of Lydia.
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And when her foot struck the ground,
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she changed her shape,
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so that to she looked to all the world she looked like an old woman,
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like an ancient crone leaning on a twisted stick.
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And she hobbled across Lydia until she came to the village of Hypaepa.
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And she hobbled through the village until she came to the cottage of Arachne.
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She could recognise it by the nymphs peering through the windows at the woman working at her loom.
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In the shape of an old woman,
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the goddess hobbled to the door of the cottage.
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She lifted a twisted fist and she knocked.
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Lydian Arachne welcomed the stranger in.
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She gave her a bowl of wine,
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a stool to sit on in the cool of the shadows.
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The stranger sipped.
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She looked at the tapestries hanging from the walls.
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She put down the bowl and said:
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“some things that old age brings should be welcomed.
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Wisdom, for instance.
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Your gift is great, but it is a gift
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that was given to you by the goddess of war and wisdom,
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owl-eyed Athene,
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who gave us the loom, the spindle, the shuttle,
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all the women’s arts.
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If I were you, I would thank her
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before she turns against you and stops your nimble fingers.”
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“I have no gift,”
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said Arachne.
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“I have a skill that was earned with long years of tedious effort and practice.
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Let those who owe the goddess thank her.
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As for me,
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did she make me give this woman’s face such a look of sorrow and regret?
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Did she make me give this couple’s embrace such a sense of passion?
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No.
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Life, life inspired me,
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not a goddess.
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Let Athene come,
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let her come here now and show the world that my work is tame compared to hers.”
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“She has come.”
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Suddenly the old woman doubled in size.
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The twisted stick became a bronze-tipped spear.
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Nymphs fell on the floor at the goddess’ feet or scattered in all directions.
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But the woman Arachne sat, uncowed and unbowed.
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And the goddess stared at her.
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A mortal and an immortal.
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The face of the woman creased and wrinkled with the joys and the sorrows of a lifetime,
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and the face of the goddess beautiful,
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unchanging as a constellation of stars in the sky,
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unchanging as a crystal embedded in stone.
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And it was the goddess who spoke first.
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“We will have a contest of weaving,
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you and I,
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and soon enough we will discover who is the giver and who the mere receiver of gifts.
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And as to the judge, the choice is yours.”
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Arachne shuddered.
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She knew that if she chose a man or woman to be judge …
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well, who would dare give her the victory for fear of the fury of the goddess?
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And she knew that if she chose a god or a goddess …
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well, which one of them would ever allow the victory to go to some mere mortal?
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And then she thought:
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there is one of the immortals who knows something of sadness and suffering and separation.
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And she said,
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“the judge will be Persephone,
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the goddess of the spring”.
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And Athene said:
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“Very well.”
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And Persephone was fetched,
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and when she entered the cottage it was as though the spring entered with her.
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There was a warm breeze.
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The colours of the threads on the spools and spindles glowed as though with some interior light.
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But Athene had noticed nothing.
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She was too busy setting up her own loom in the corner of the room.
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And when everything was ready,
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Arachne said,
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“what is to be our theme?”
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And the goddess smiled her inscrutable smile and she said,
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“our theme will be this:
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the timeless of the mighty gods and goddesses,
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and the uppity arrogance of you mere mortals.”
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And Arachne nodded.
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And the woman and the goddess selected a thread from the rainbow of choices,
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and each of them fitted the thread to a shuttle,
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and each of them began to pass the shuttle from hand to hand across the loom,
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and the threads became shapes and the shapes became forms and the forms became pictures.
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And all morning they worked.
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And all afternoon they worked.
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And then, as the evening came,
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and the shadows lengthened,
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the woman and the goddess put down the shining shuttles,
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and they stepped back from their looms.
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Their tapestries were finished.
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Bright Persephone, goddess of the spring,
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stepped forward to judge their handiwork.
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She saw many stories depicted on the two tapestries.
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Of course, she looked first at the tapestry of the goddess,
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and she saw:
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Apollo playing his lyre while the whole of creation held its breath.
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And then, in the tapestry of the woman,
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she saw a pale yellow flower leaning over its perfect reflection in the still waters of a lake.
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On the tapestry of the goddess,
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she saw Artemis,
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smiling to herself as a stag was dragged down by his own hounds.
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And on the tapestry of the woman she saw two trees,
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an oak and a linden,
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their leaves echoing the faces of an old man and an old woman,
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looking deep into one another’s eyes.
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And for Persephone there was no contest.
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The tapestry of the goddess was flawless, perfect.
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The tapestry of the woman moved her.
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Persephone, who knew something of sorrow and separation,
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she looked at these little figures loving and losing,
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embracing and cowering in terror,
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and she understood their passion.
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The tapestry had been woven with a golden thread of joy and a silver thread of sorrow,
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woven with the knowledge that life is brief.
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“The woman Arachne has won.”
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Owl-eyed Athene snarled.
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She grabbed the shuttle from her loom.
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She struck Arachne between the eyes.
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Arachne moaned.
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She stumbled back.
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Her hair fell out,
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her body shrunk to the size of one black peppercorn,
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her head to the size of one black poppy seed.
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Her nimble fingers became legs that clung to her sides and she scuttled into the shadows and safety.
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Athene threw back her head and hooted with owl laughter.
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With owl talons she ripped Arachne’s tapestry to bright ribbons.
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With owl wings she flew out of the window of the cottage and up to the high slopes of Mount Olympus.
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But that night,
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from the bronze halls of the House of Rumour,
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she heard a story.
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A story from the village of Hypaepa in the Kingdom of Lydia,
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a story of spinning and weaving.
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Her forehead furrowed into a frown,
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and as the dawn took her golden throne,
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Athene strapped on her sandals of untarnishing gold,
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she seized her spear,
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she flashed down out of the sky to the village of Hypaepa.
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She made her way to the cottage of Arachne,
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she peered through the window,
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and the place was empty.
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And that was as it should be.
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But then, out of the corner of her eye,
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she saw something moving under the eave of the roof.
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And she turned and she looked.
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And there was a creature,
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a tiny creature drawing the final thread across a piece of weaving so beautiful,
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so intricately delicate that the goddess could only gasp in astonishment.
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The tiny creature was spinning a thread from her own belly,
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and making a masterpiece.
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A spider’s web,
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the very first,
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and glistening with drops of dew in the light of the dawn as though it had been threaded with silver tears.