>Something very ordinary,
not at all special,
monotonous .. normal.. conventional and dull,
Sitting besides the weaver I watched,
An art of weaving of cloth.
Time moved with noise of the loom,
and moved along the strings.
Different threads of different shades,
dark, bright, placid and fades.
One after another moved here and there,
which the weaver moved skillfully, with care.
Then a moment came for breaking the routine,
Playing the trump .. bringing in the queen.
Weaver picks up the string of gold,
And from one end of the loom it rolled.
Sparkling it held all the strings,
Beauty of life.. joy of spring.
As it moved along it left a mark,
Beautiful, deep, glittering and dark.
Every moment had so much to hold,
Background of colors and a dash of gold.
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