The Weaver of Worlds

From embers' breath, on the weathered stone, I write, A firstborn whisper, birthing meaning's light. A symphony I hum, a nascent tongue, Language, a seed, from fertile silence sprung. In sun-drenched squares, where minds in combat meet, I clash with Logic, ideas at our feet. Confucius whispers wisdom, on the wind I sigh, A weaver true, shaping destinies that lie. Across the plains, beneath the starry dome, Bards sing my tales, a hero finds his home. Hieroglyphs whisper secrets in the night, My eyes, each symbol, stories held so tight. The seeker peers, through wisdom's searching eye, A labyrinth I weave, where meaning finds its sky. Am I a label, cold and bare to touch? Or a vibrant canvas, worlds I paint so much? From Sanskrit's hymns to Aztec pictographs, A tapestry I weave, where laughter softly graphs. A chorus rises, diverse and strong and clear, A bridge I build, that binds you, year by year. Hands speak in markets, my vibrant, bustling hum, Silence holds its weight, when words have all been numb. A feather's touch, a balance held so true, The power of the pause, whispers soft and new. Glasses raised high, beneath the moonlit sky, A symphony of voices, reaching ever high. From whispers faint to battle's thundering cry, Language, the weaver of worlds, that will never die.