Strands of silk, thinner than a breath,
spun with a patience we rarely possess.
An invisible architecture revealed
by a bead of morning dew,
a sudden glint of sun.
Intricate.
A geometry born not of compass or ruler,
but of instinct, of a silent knowing
etched in the very being of the spinner.
Each thread placed with a purpose,
a sticky snare in the vast...
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