Upon the tides of Venice, where the old

Stones drink the moonlight and the stories told,

Six ladies rise from shadow and from mist,

With secrets on their lips that have been kissed

By ancient sorrow and by future light,

They are the weavers of the day and night.

​They stir a cauldron at Unurban room,

Where threads of laughter and of deepest gloom

Are spun together, tangled and entwined,

The joy and loss of all of humankind.

They use no lead to turn to purest gold,

But heartbreak’s ache and stories ages old,

And with songs that shimmer in the air,

They mend the fabric of a soul’s despair.

​The world in chaos, fractured and unmade,

Finds in their music a sweet serenade,

A healing balm for every human heart,

A golden cure for every painful part.

They pull tomorrow from the ashes of today,

And with their magic, wash the pain away,

Revealing joy that waits beyond the pain,

Like sunbeams breaking through the window pane.

​For in their work, all history is bound,

The whispered words on every cobblestone,

And in their song, a single thread is spun,

That links us all beneath the moon and sun.

The past and present, every soul and name,

joined forever in their mystic flame.

And by their grace, we know we’re not alone,

Held by a melody that calls us back home.