That infernal pryer, doth play with our lives, A hen, too bored with her own. She builds paupers and princes, and turns them around, While she eyes us, never alone. Embodiment of three, won’t you meddle no more? And leave us to build our own fate. Or must you continue to keep us as clay? To bend at your will, as of late. Ah Clothos, her beauty beguiles us all, And she begins, the thread of our lives. Spun from the very, substance of life, Where the universe, eternally thrives. Concerned mother Lachesis, sits at her loom, Spinning and weaving all day. For she is the one, that controls our life here, Just please make it worthwhile we pray. Grandmotherly Atropos, who seals all our fate, And she severs the threads for our end. Shall we die young, or live till our grey, Nowt, shall the will of her bend. Our lives are not ours, they belong to three, Who meddle, and shake up and twist. Those womanly fiends who make play with or lives, Bound together, in eternal tryst.
Reason for writing:
Fate in mythology is determined in the threads of life.
Clothos spins this thread, Lachesis weaves, and Atropos
cuts it when we reach our death. I wonder whether
everything destined in written in gold, or do we have the
choice to create a destiny of our own?
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Adam vanLangenberg.