The tale of weaver's daughter*

The Weaver's daughter spends her days
By the spinwheel paddling soft
Turning the bobbins to stitch clothes,
She weaves a yarn, spins a two,
Clothes she made without fuss,
Toiling her from Dawn to dusk,
The Weaver's daughter, toil she must,

Her ailing father , grown old and infirm,
Can't see the needles proper nor the holes,
She does all the yeoman's works,
Her father's daughter, toil she must,
She fetched water from the well,
Her brother she sends to the school,
Does his studies at an evening course
Rest of the day , she keeps spinning wheels,

A button hole there, a double stitch here,
A special zigzag pattern, all that matter,
She works tireless and without guile
She works day in and day out fine,

At the end of the day, after doing her works,
When the town gets lighted by halogenic sparks,
She , prepares supper for her and the rest
Of the family, the maiden as she got, by Bless,

After feeding them all like a woman true,
With the sky she talks about her dues,
Her dream of finding a Prince for her,
Who will take her to the Heavenly Bower,
Where her toils will perhaps get
The much deserving, much expected respect,

One day, while she was thinking thus,
Sitting by her window , idly just,
She thought she saw someone came,
Who called her, by her, maiden name,
She was amused, startled and surprised
How come riding a horse, come a Prince
To their humble cottage, at the city's fringe,

She thought she should hide away
Her tears and Joys and all those
Little things that wanted to come out,
From her closed heart, dried throat,

But the man on a horse so ridden
Her hands he all thought to be bidden,
And the Weaver's daughter, the magnificent woman,
Could stop that Prince , her,  to be taken,

That night, legend as have it,
The sky got by Aurora suddenly lit.

(*Note: the painting attached is used to beautify and accentuate the theme of the poem/story/scribbling. Courtesy: Vincent Romero Redondo, Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista, Art without Limits series)