Weobaei wore a garment spun of
the finest threaded colors,
a magical gift from his father.
And when he walked among his brothers and sisters,
it was as if he walked on air,
so proud he was of his inheritance.

One night, the magic was stripped
from him,
his identity taken as well.
His brothers and sisters knew him not.
It was as if he had died a death.
Bound in slavery now, Weobaei behind a plow,
wearing only a cocoon.
He incubates in the field of earth,
wearing to work no facade of color;
no prized possession or
symbol of birthright to save him.
And as he turns in looming light, threads of toil around his soul,
he finds salvation, not famine.   

Master, Manaeshte, takes note of
this faithful one, giving him a position of command with a powerful man.
Weobaei works as hard as he can gathering fruits of his labor from the land,
always trying to please Manaeshte,
singing and praising Manaeshte.

It seems he has been blessed with good fortune again,
though not with colored cloak, family, or inheritance.
Weobaei finds peace knowing his Master is served.  
Storehouses filled for his fellowman;
a gratifying task.
Doing thus, he finds the magic again.
Now he wears a garment of gold --
Manaeshte wraps it 'round him.