A Weaver's Wish

The horizon pops the rising sun and gulps it down in a cyclic rhythm,

as those weary hands keep moving and weaving knots upon knots,

fingers which were once strong but now trembling and shrunk,

eyes which were crystal clear but now weakened from continuous strain,

but they still work in tandem in hope of building that one masterpiece,

that would send the faces into a frenzy.

So the old weaver sits back again with hope in that same mosaic floor,

facing the generations-old weaving machine with that same magnifying lens,

the same stooped posture, arms propped up moving along with the machine,

the fingers tying knot after knot in patterns known and unknown,

wishing for that long due masterpiece,

as a slow murmur of the wind keep rattling the thatched roof,

as he suddenly heard some known unclear whispers from a different world,

whispers that slowly began to clear up, began to make sense,

voices of guidance from his father and grandfather.

He smiled.