In the hush where all colors collapse,
it blinks but once every hundred threads.
A watcher woven from forgotten loops,
spun tight in silence,
loose in time.
Its gaze is soft,
but it sees what even light forgets—
dreams left stitched inside the clouds,
whispers curled in yarn-born hills,
truths no tongue remembers to speak.
Above it, eyes orbit like thoughts unspooled,
threaded stars on invisible strings.
Below, the land breathes velvet.
Tiny homes sleep under its vision,
never quite awake.
The Woolapse Oracle does not answer—
it remembers.
And in that memory,
everything that could be
already once was.
Made with love and wools
