She wrote it herself. It was based on a lullaby her mother sang. A tribute.
She shaped the lines to match the melody. It wasn't very elaborate. Single voiced. Lacking in harmony.
She wrote lyrics - "down the stream" - but not in the English you and I know.
She wove her threads together, into patches. She pieced those together in turn. No rush. She had no pressing obligations. This wasn't pressing either.
Sometimes she would leave it unattended for days. Static and silent, yet still beating with the song woven into it. It was her baby. She would grow something perfect, shaped by fate.
It wasn't long before the fabric covered her floor. She took it outside, laid it upon the ground. And this she would grow.
Meanwhile, within the fabric, her song was taking shape. It was churning. Roiling. The lone melody created its own accompaniment.
The noise was deafening when it exploded. But it was confined. Only within the fabric. The fire upon its surface was a thing of beauty.
She did not stop to appreciate her own creation. She continued to weave on patches. And she was no ordinary weaver. Her fabric would cover her entire planet. This was how much time she had.
When she added the final patch, a piece of blank sky, there was nothing left to do. She yet hummed her song, barely audible. Even to herself.
It was time to wait. A perfect world for something she always wanted, yet could never find. She had decided to create it for herself.
It would not be tangible for her. Unfortunately. Like an image upon a wall, she could only watch.
And watch she did. Directing her creation with her song.
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