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We sew and weave,
And weave and sew.
We watch the thread,
As it bobs to and fro.

We are women of Arachne,
Not Helens of Troy.
Men will not fight wars over us,
No ships will they deploy.

We cut and snip,
And snip and cut.
Cursed to a life,
Where the door's always shut.

We weave our own webs,
We have our own story.
Stories of calm and patience,
Not of men and their glory.

We are the Penelopes,
Wives who await the return.
But no one remembers to save us,
As the world around us, burns.



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