Indian Weavers

WEAVERS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.

Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.

Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.

by Sarojini Naidu

Comments (2)

Aloha Peter... How the passage of time... changes our direction... so easily... re: your bio... vs this first post... Take a moment to re-gather your gift... All of the best from this life, to you, and all of your relations... Michaelw1two.
The brevity of this Haiku-like poem urges the reader to concentrate not on what words say but rather on what is left “unsaid’ and “undefined” somewhere in silence