In a corner of the world, where old forests whisper, Lived a weaver, her dreams as soft as thistledown, In her loom, threads of moonlight and dusk would twister, Weaving tapestries of night, of unseen renown.

Her fingers danced, with magic fine and rare, To capture dreams, in colors bold and fair. Yet, in the village square, they'd often jeer, "At her silent loom, what good does she do here?"

"Leave dreams to sleep," they'd say, "and work the waking day, For dreams are but shadows, that always fade away." So, her loom grew silent, the threads untouched by light, Her dreams, once vibrant, now lost to eternal night.

Years turned like pages, the weaver's hair turned grey, Her tapestries hidden, as dreams were tucked away. Until one night, a comet painted the sky, A sign, perhaps, that dreams never truly die.

From house to house, through windows, a curious glow was seen, As if the very stars had descended to convene. There, in her cottage, the weaver's loom alight, With a tapestry of dreams, in the comet's flight.

The village gathered, in awe of the sight they'd spurned, In the weave of her loom, the universe turned. She spoke, "See how dreams, though in shadows they begin, Hold the light of worlds, the magic deep within."