Pull the thread Arachne. The shuttle dives
and climbs like the owl after prey, resting
now and then, perch’d, till the moment arrives
and then it strikes. It must have been jesting
for you to boast you could outweave Pallas,
which by now you likely regret, as she
swooped in the open window with malice
in her cold green eyes and demanded thee
to make a skein worthy of a god’s hand.
Now here you stand: weeping before your loom,
begging proud Athena to understand,
and certain that the morn shall birth your doom.
Fear not! When you then fail to provide her
with your work, you’ll live – but as a spider.
god america i 