On the isle of Burano, where hues ignite,
A hidden studio rests, beyond the light.
Psaligrafia's sign, it proudly states,
Turns paper into lace, and sculpts its fates.

With each precise snip, Vera's art takes place,
Void's tender hold, in paper's warm embrace.
Custom dies and scissors in a masterful chase,
Echoes of gothic arches, finely traced.

Once mere scraps, now fine art's embrace,
Breathing new life in every single trace.
From forgotten sheets, new stories take their place,
Crafted into lace, where tales interlace.