Theirs was a lovely secret
Kept in mirrors and the clouds
A culture based in couture
A foundation built of mortar

Their garments such a finery
And yet were worn by all
The crimson crest embroidered
In pockets no one saw

The fabric bore a fine sweet scent
The product of such sudor lent
A softness born of optic fears
Twice ripened over prudent years

No one saw the weavers
Toiling at their looms
No one saw the weavers
Not even in the tombs

reticent and righteous, rife with
egalitarian flair,
withdrawing at its leisure as if playing with the air.

My senses took a notice, of its
continuous resurgence
as northeasterlies often do,

for the subtle winds that blow with
ease repeat their acts
elusively until you’re noticeably moved.

,