Red Thread Weaver

In twilight's hush, where shadows softly fall, A maiden sits, entwined with feline grace, Her crimson turban, a fiery crown, As she cradles cats in a serene, sacred space. Behind her, a ruin stands, a testament to time, With threads of red, a mystic web entwines, The yarns of fate, a complex, intricate design, As she weaves the fabric of a dream divine. Her eyes, like dark pools, deep and serene, Reflect the mysteries of the unseen, The cats, with eyes like sapphires, watch and wait, As the maiden weaves, her magic, an intimate state. In this tableau, a story unfolds, Of a weaver, a guardian, a heart that's made of gold, The red thread, a symbol of her might, A protector, a guide, through the dark of night.