"The Whole Night" The whole night I was weaving stuff of dreams, of silken thoughts, of fragile threads of hope, a spider web of much too lovely dreams, a net to catch the first drops of the dew and trap the sweet songs of the early birds that swing at dawn so gently in the breeze. The morning came. Too heavy was the dew; some threads were torn; the sun dried up whatever I had spun, the cold wind of reality broke in and there was nothing left... no dream no hope no word. There was another night, another day and still more spiderwebs against the brassy sky and other nets of letters in the brook of hopelessness. Now I am silent, and I weave no more. "When you don't speak, He will be on your lips. When you don't weave, the weaver will be He." --Annemarie Schimmel, _Nightingales Under the Snow_