raphtheman

Three are one, the fates are fate; each to the other a perfect mate. The thread of life to them belong. Nor good nor ill, they weave a song. The past: young, faire, and wild. Like all fond memories, the perfect child. The present: motherly and strong. To her the gifts of life belong. The future holds wares most wise, the sage of age, the death of lies. The first draws life from Gia's breast, the next measures from crest to crest. Lastly, the crow brings forth her scythe, cuts the thread—the breath of life. Together, three, a tapestry make from which even Gods will quake. Twilight creature or mortal throng, Their patterne