I weave clothes, with dreams and desires,
Twisting, turning and intertwining with hopes.
I wish the quirk she is trying to create looks elegant and neat,
The old nanny near my home was formulating her lover.
With two knitting needles in her hands,
Like all her existence she’s been doing this,
Accepting the deficiencies and living unnoticed.
No castle, where she could mellow out.
Having nothing but wools beside, like the sky having clouds.
Dreary like the ocean, intensely murky,
With no dismay and no qualms,
She was swivelling her enchanted counterpane.