Three Fates to work Time’s world, to spin,
To weave, to cut, threads of temporeality
Which snare unwary mortals, souls sought
By demons of the wastes which lie beyond
All ken of man, ladies or swirling storms.
Time’s weaver winds about in dark worlds
Unseen, all machinations meandering for
Want of strange conclusions, if only glimpsed
Could be by these eyes, staring to see more
Than light alone mayst try to uncover.