Imagine Penelope at the loom,
The scene on the cloth
Resembling the hall two hours before
When the men that now lie snoring,
Sated with wine and meat
Traces of which stain their tunics
Boisterously filled the vault with clamour
Bragging with the spoils of another day
The master was not at home.
Grieving inside but sitting, proud and tall,
A maid shielding her from chanced glances
Cause what she s going to work
Is risking the thread of her hope
Penelopes s starting to weave:
Already you can see the calves
Of a man in a fighters stance
And one of his enemies cowring,
Blood on a cleft on his skull
Its supposed to be Ulysses come back,
Meteing out death to the bold knaves
That invaded his house, mocking his
Mastery and intimidated his wife.
Carefully she s feeding the threads
Into the fabric, bringing to substance
The vision of her hope
Weaving reality and vision together,
Materializing imaginations content
In a coloured piece of cloth.
(The real and the imaginery world
Woven into a texture of threads.)
Thus the poet feeds his thoughts
Like threads into the weave.