Song Of The Weaver Bird.

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There were no panics in this Friday. It went well. I was busy at work
in the morning as the users came back and said they don’t want to see
any zeroes on the screen for dates and anything else. Just blanks. So I
needed to modify the programs to accommodate the changes. It was about
1:30PM when I was done. Then after lunch I thought I will write
something. I wrote wild, many things mmm nothing seems to be hitting me
at all. Then I thought what was it that I took as style to write poems.
I need a bird, a tree, countryside and a girl of my own. Haha, nice
recipe, the good old recipe, I think it worked. I wrote a poem spending
about 45 to 50 minutes.
 I am officially back in a calm. This week that went by was good.
Even though nothing special happened. Now what I hates most is waiting.
All my life I was waiting. For everything I want, I needed to wait.
That which I needed to today I will either get next month or I won’t
get it at all. The girl friends I had, stood me up most than any guy I
know. I am waiting to hear from USCIS about the visa issue. I am
waiting to hear from the new company about what they wanted me to do.
To end this post… I can just say, I waited and waited and waited to
hear. But I saw only blanks and heard silence which I fear most.

Enjoy the poem and you all have a wonderful weekend.

Song Of The Weaver

The howling winter winds left without a trace,
The brightness of the day rejuvenated life back,
Men, women and machines back on the field,
The seeds sowed, the rains showered,
The once frozen land flourished in greenery.

Upon the tree the weaver sat restless,
Flying down like a missile once in a while,
Stealing one long dying leaf at a time,
She went up to weave the nest,
She grabbed left cotton balls,
Saps from the tree and saliva of her own
To weave the nest to withstand,
The spring and summer storms to come.

Deep in her heart she composed,
Tunes unheard until that day,
And she whistled her tunes embedded,
With meanings no poets could weave.
But there live a little poet in me who understood,
The meaning of the tune of the beautiful bird,
“Ah my beauty by the fruits could compare,
Sweet and soft upon your heart so rare,
Fields of vastness in richness no comparison,
To the love you bring to my day,
And I weaved for you this modest swing,
Upon which come, sit, sing in sway,
A song that speaks your love in mine,
A song that shows nature, love’s purity,
And forever I will hold your heart in sanctity.”

Oh’ I heard the song of the weaver day after day,
But never heard another voice other than her own.
The brutal material world took me away,
And in busy towns I whistled,
The heartfelt tune the weaverbird bird sung.

There were birds of many colors everywhere,
None whistled any tune back at me,
Then one day by the lake drive, I sat,
And my own tune I felt, I whistled,
To my wonder, I heard an echo of my tune,
Turning back those beautiful eyes I saw,
First at each other in silence we looked,
Then we let our hearts speak to each other,
In the days followed she took my heart,
With a promise to keep it forever.

The summer warmth into the heavy air faded,
The colors of the nature changed,
To my country home, with my darling I drove,
With a promise to show the weaver’s nest.

The harvest was done and the land looked bare,
There was silence everywhere and nothing moved,
I looked at the nest that looked empty,
Then to have a look the tree I climbed,
The nest looked dry and the weaver seemed left,
For warmer air with her beautiful tunes,
The nest held tight to the dying branch,
I pulled out the nest even in the protest of my girl,
As I wanted to show her, what I found,
Three empty eggshells inside the well weaved nest,
Holding the nest my love looked at me and smiled,
And took my hands and dragged me away,
Whistling a tune a long time back I heard,
That woke up every dying leaf around,
As we walked away back at the tree I looked,
And saw the weaver’s swing swaying up and down.

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