When the fates have spoken,
may we hear their voice in kind.
For, their word remains unbroken
and the eternal tie that binds.
When human sense and logic eludes,
may we find gratitude in their stead.
Knowing that trinity colludes,
they are life’s mother thread.
For, every mortal from birth to death
was woven from Clotho’s spindle.
A spoken measure by Lachesis’ breath–
can snuff out, or rekindle.
And when our thread has ended,
Atropos cuts it with her shears.
A patchwork now rescinded
into the end of years.
These daughters of the night
weave humans from their loom.
Their fabrication of life
is only delivered from the womb–
like the ancient caves,
returning life into the tomb.
Birth ordains death,
and Moirai are the loom.