In this world where life is nothing more than a single thread.
It matter not what fiber that it is taken from.
The individual thread can not with stand the strain nor stress.
It can not endure the test of time nor is it strong enough, to hold together
the cause by it's self.
Thous when the thread is stretched to the point of breaking.
It is then and only then the Master Weaver sends his must trusted
apprentice down to collect them.
For they are now worthy of being woven into a fiber in the counterpane
of life.
That can with stand the test of time.
There he place them one by one on the loom of the living heart.
Laboring from dust to dawn.
He enter weaves each thread togather and the counterpane comes to
be
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem