Yearning for birdies. Tales after folklores describe her beauty,
her immensity, her honourably lustrous shawl
gleaming of slight imperfections—mercifully masked by her looks—
and yes: her petulant playfulness; the symbol of disaster.

While the moon and sun still follow their cycles on this expanse of
white land, she tells stories to the blank space, sits firmly on her chair,
and spins the threads of our lives as if she’s making yarn-full of
toga for her closet. Deities would look to her and blink:

once, twice, and thrice, then make another quick shut-eye
that makes them realise the girl, perhaps as young and I am,
control the faith of mankind and their minds. But perhaps
more bizzare is something besides their eyes, where

a birdie is circling the forbidden, and butterfly-like, span
of houses akin to ours. But in there, Clotho slowly sighs
for this peculiar night, for moonbeams are not sad.
She wonders why time flies into the dimples on their cheeks,

and she continues to spun her thread once, twice, but got diverted
into a new scheme to talk to the tiny creature unable to survive
at this altitude. See her weaving hands? She ceased at once.
The fashionable woman yearns for birdies more than anything else—

perhaps she just wants to fly with her mortal-esque arms and fingers,
something wanted by her puny heart; like hours. The birdie is a dream.
Perhaps she is drunk, besides being hallowed and revered.
Alas, she steps out her house to tell the birdie to “Shoo! Scat!

Go below our sky, or you’ll die.” And she just realised that
she had some things unattended—some things, once lengthened,
can’t be rewound. And then, with a blink of an eye,
there are more people in the sky looking down on their sprouting rye.