The Loomer...

Just the start of the day and I've already produced two blog posts. Not exactly productive in the way I expected it to be but then again when do our expectations  ever keep up. Now I must run. Hopefully, I'll be able to get back to my studies for the finals after :-) Enjoy. 

P.s. Listening to ballads early in the morning really is quite refreshing. 

P.P.s I think this just fully concludes a most happening week of bad breakups, old reunions and annoying brothers :)

                

How about you weave a magic web for me? The pauper asked the carpet weaver. With golden threads, red and blue demons with your scent imbued  in it. And the scent of the lilies you picked from the cliffy oceans before the sun shone up on the sky. Fill it with the whiff of the green tree bark leaves and orange blossoms. And make it hot red like the volcanic eruptions of an island, the standing pools of blood and the embers of a burning coal. So weave it with your gentle, dexterous frail hands until they slump and fall. Sit on it in the freezing chill and the burning heat. Sit on it when the birds migrate east and when they come singing back. Sit on it, religiously, as if devotes congregating with God.

Make sure that whenever it is in front of my eyes, the images are in my mind. The two nocturnal beings. The rustle of red silk. The hazel mountain tops. The slinky tree tops. Solitary and confined to the same place for centuries. The stealth of footsteps. A pair of two precarious almond shaped eyes full of silent determinations and hesitant desires. And the shadows that lurk by. The shadows harboring all the hidden secrets. Joys. Cries. Lies.  A hand across his nape. Palms on her hips. Closer still. Fingers caressing the coarse flesh. Tangled ties and muffled laughter. Elbows scrape and gash open. Minds collude into oblivion. Blackness follows. It envelops all the white and green of the hills. Encasing the tinge of red and the brown of the pupil. It offers its salutations to the winds and the trees and the clouds speak. They thunder and they weep. They reminisce with the weaver and offer condolences to the pauper.

And impregnate it with my love and my sorrow. The deceitful promises and the lost hopes. The lingering looks and yearning needs. An unavoidable reunion. Treacherous fate. The longing of my soul. A calling for my love.

So the weaver weaves. With the wooden loom atop her right thigh and the long ebony locks tangled in the red and blue threads round the tips of her fingers. She weaves. She weaves when the mummers dance and when the crowned eagle speaks. When the quiet breeze whispers and the night hangs upon her. And she weaves. Monotonously and vigilantly. As she weaves, she weaves her soul in, she weaves in her touch and her song. She weaves so that he may come again.