In this place that gives and takes,

Like the seasons spinning intertwined,

Each thought is sown and harvested,

Through the tangled lines of the ages.

 

Upon the palms of ancestors,

Abundance was reaped.

Having more than what was needed

Having more that one could want,

A yearning beckoned for more.

 

In time, talents lost for lack of habit.

Hands parched, stagnant and idle,

Called for a new return,

Called for an old rhythm.

 

And with every stitch, piece by piece remembered.

A chorus of fingers, industrious and diligent,

Cultivated memories and planted ambitions,

In the garden of affluence.