We all like to spin,
all the time we like to spin,
some like to spin a yarn,
some try to spin straw into gold,
all the while an illusion,
in the head,
no golden thread.
Some spin the fate’s thread,
yet I will spin my own instead.
Some spin a tapestry elaborate weave,
many colours too complex,
designed to deceive.
Yet I will spin a loincloth,
pure and simple,
honest to believe.
So will coloured cloth fade and fray,
Or will it last instead,
For some stories lie fragile,
Hanging by breakable thread.



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