The Weavers

No one saw the weavers
The makers of the golden shrouds
Designed for insularity
And woven for posterity

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

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