My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle,

And are spent without hope.  Before the thread

Of my short life is spun, the thing I dread

Has come upon me.  All alone I huddle,

Helpless; for I am neither strong nor subtle

As those who will be glad when I am dead.

They hunt for me to take away my head,

They pour my lifeblood out into a puddle:

I am cut off before I reach the loom.

No one will wait to see how I will look

Stretched on the frame. (They say there is no room.)

Too proud to read the illustrated book

Prepared for weavers by the great Designer,

They say that fewer threads make fabric finer.