A tiny spider catches your eye. Her small, waxy form seems to be covered with a filigree pattern of silver and purple. She busily weaves and spins as you watch, making an intricate lace of fine threads. She weeps as she weaves, with great soft tears sliding into the lace.
Why would she be crying, you wonder to yourself. As though you had spoken aloud, the spider answers gently, "I weep for you and for myself and all these beautiful things of which the world is made." She holds up before her face a completed rectangle of tiny knots which trace out a series of small trembling flowers. "All is temperal and fades away in a moment before it can be fully appreciated." She blows evenly upon the rectangle and the thread dissipates into the evening air, until nothing of the lace is left but a memory.
"I weave as I see," she breathes, "and I see all the loveliness and all the impermanence I can contain. Therefore, as I weave, I must weep."