In the windy gush,

He rushes between the bush.



Speck by speck, he collects the twigs,

Gently plopping between the limbs.



It takes a whole day,

To collect all the hay.



Building a nest, Trying with all his might,

Procuring his family with all his plight.



Then comes the voracious storm,

Thumping all his norms.



The scenery is plethoric,

This is an imperilment.



Not fearing with the gusty winds,

The next day he rises and takes a twine.



He dwindles and swaddles for relocation,

That's the spirit of reincarnation.



Indeed, the soul of the golden weaver and many birds,

Yearn applause, they teach us to"Rise again and break the odds"