The Weaver
Sasha Jovanovski

Once was a land far, far to the south, made of
Great dunes of white diamond sand
Ruled by a prince with the head of a mantis
And she whom he made his right hand.

Weaver they called her, and knew not her name—
It had met with the path of some sword—
Cat-tailed and quiet, she conjured up schemes and
Delivered them clean to her lord.

One night said the Weaver, “My lord, all is well
But for whispers I heard through the walls:
Your brother by blood plots your death in the dark
And sends villains to wander these halls.”

The mantis prince cried, gripped his hand to his heart
And the hand began slowly to scheme
She conferred with her jewels, drew pictures in kohl
And she sent her lord’s brother a dream.

“Your brother,” she crooned, “won his crown in a game
From the father he once called his own—
Avenge your dead king, take what’s meant to be yours
And I’ll make sure you wear it alone.”

The brothers crossed blades and fell both in one lunge
Each wielding his traitorous hand
From the ashes, the Weaver: maw dripping with blood,
Great princess of white diamond sand.

So took she her crown and our story is through
Till a Weaver awakens again
For to kill and learn nothing like fathers long dead
Is the curse of the fool mantis men.