The loom stands silent, threads unspun,
A tapestry of dreams undone.
The shuttle rests, its dance denied,
A symphony of color, petrified.
For in the heart of this cold, barren room,
Where once the vibrant hues did bloom,
A chill wind whispers, bleak and stark,
Of war's relentless, deadly mark.
The weaver, once with spirit bright,
Now kneels in shadows, lost to light.
His brow is furrowed, etched with pain,
A heart that echoes war's refrain.
The threads he wove, of love and peace,
Now tangled lie, their promise ceased.
His hands, once nimble, deft and bold,
Now tremble, stories left untold.
For war has stolen, with a cruel embrace,
The tapestry of life, its vibrant grace.
It's torn the threads of hope and trust,
Leaving only ashes, and a bitter dust.
He sees the faces, young and old,
Lost in the battles, stories yet untold.
Their dreams, their laughter, now are gone,
Replaced by shadows, battles fought and won.
The loom remains, a silent plea,
For peace to bloom, for hearts to be free.
But in this silence, deep and vast,
The weaver's spirit, broken, cast.
He weeps for lost innocence and youth,
For lives cut short, and broken truth.
His tears fall freely, like a mournful rain,
A testament to war's unending pain.
The world outside, in vibrant hue,
May dance and sing, oblivious to the rue.
But here, within these walls of despair,
The weaver mourns, a burden beyond compare.
He sees the tapestry, incomplete,
A symbol of his pain, his defeat.
The threads of hope, forever frayed,
By war's relentless, cruel crusade.
He knows the loom will stand alone,
Until the darkness fades, and peace is known.
But for now, he weeps, his heart bereft,
A weaver's lament, forever left.
For in this room, where dreams once bloomed,
A silent prayer for peace is doomed.
The weaver's spirit, shattered, torn,
A testament to battles, fought and mourned.