Arachne

A Lesson in Modesty

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Daily I sat at my loom,
Such wonders did I weave.
My shuttle swift, my fingers sure,
Each day and every eve.

​My father made his cloth so fine,
My mother taught me too.
My fingers found designs profound
That even gods would view.

​The women came to watch me work,
Their praise a careful thing.
“You’re gifted, yes,” they always said,
Although their tone did sting.

​“Be mindful,” some would murmur low.
“Don’t claim yourself too great.
The gods grow jealous,” others warned,
“Your skill invites their hate.”

​Athena came in armor bright,
With eyes both cold and shrewd.
She praised my skill, then fell quite still
And claimed the scene was lewd.

​“It’s not!” I cried—though none denied
My truth, none would defend.
She tore the tapestry in twain,
Beyond all hope to mend.

​Athena preached of balance, grace—
Of lessons learned through strife,
And smiled the way a woman does
Before she ruins your life.

​I fled, I cried, I begged the gods,
But none stood by my side.
I tied the rope about my neck—
My final act of pride.

​Athena came with pity now,
To mend what she had done.
Eight legs did sprout, as I cried out—
My weaving had begun.

​So now I spin in corners dark,
My truth in silk, unseen.
I’m free to weave my tapestries
Which none will call obscene.