In Lydia’s land, a weaver arose,  

Her threads like wind, her fingers like prose.  

No noble blood, no godly tie,  

Yet tapestries that made gods sigh.

The people whispered, wide-eyed, bold,  

“Her hands, divine. Her cloth, pure gold.”  

But when they claimed Athena taught,  

Arachne scoffed — “My gift was wrought!”

No goddess shaped these threads I pull,  

No blessing filled my spindle full.  

And should she doubt what skill I own,  

Let her contest me, thread for throne.

Athena came, in guise of age,  

“Repent,” she warned, “curb pride and rage.”  

But Arachne stood, her voice held flame,  

“Then let her come and test my claim.”

The looms were set, the silence deep,  

Each goddess wove what she would keep.  

Athena stitched divine command,  

Her power etched by steady hand.

Yet Arachne’s cloth told different tales—  

Of gods who tricked and hearts that failed.  

She showed the gods in shameful lust,

In love betrayed and broken trust.

The threads were flawless, sharp and true,  

A beauty bold, a damning view.  

And though her skill could not be blamed,  

It was the truth that left gods shamed.

Athena saw, and fury sparked,  

Her pride unraveling every part.  

She tore the cloth, she struck with spite,  

And cursed the girl who dared the light.

Shamed and broken, Arachne fled,  

A noose prepared to end her thread.  

But Athena, (a god) cruel in grace,  

Reached out and stayed her soul in place.

“No death,” she hissed, “you will endure—  

A fate more twisted, slow and sure.”  

Then spun her flesh to legs and thread,  

A cursed weaver, a living dead.

Now spiders spin in silent halls,  

Their legacy in Arachne’s calls.  

Not of pride, but punished truth,  

Of gods who feared the hands of youth.