In realms of deep sleep, shadows dance,
Dream weavers spin
their yarns of chance.
Through moonlit night
and sunlit day,
They craft the visions
where dreams play.
The first weaver, old and
ancient as time,
With fingers wise and
eyes that shine,
She spins tales of
ancient lore,
Where myths and
legends run galore.
Next comes the weaver
of starry skies,
With constellations delightful
in her eyes.
She paints the heavens
with cosmic gleam,
And whispers secrets
in each moonbeam.
Then there's the
weaver of earthly scenes,
With fields of green
and forests serene.
Her hands caressing
the river’s flow,
And paint the sunset's
golden glow.
The weaver of love,
with gentle touch,
Crafts dreams of
hearts, with a pinkish slush.
In tender whispers,
vows are made,
In sacred bonds, souls
are swayed.
The weaver of fears,
in shadows deep,
Spins nightmares where
unknown beings creep.
But even in darkness,
there's a bright spark,
A glimmer of hope in
the endless void of dark.
And lastly, the weaver
of dreams untold,
Whose visions
transcend what words can hold.
In realms of imagination, flying wild and free,
She conjures wonders
for all in a delightful spree.
Dream weavers all, in
their own right,
Each brings magic to
the silent night.
In the tapestry of dreams,
together they weave,
A symphony of hopes,
in which we all believe.
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