In the whispering of the winds,
a thread weaves.
Afar the torrid skies of a burning valley
hides a meadow,
An oasis of mountains amidst
tranquil green fields.

Olden looms entrench these lush fields
and women old and young
gather to weave.
Bare feet dipped in henna make
intricate floral leaves
and the rustling of skirts
create an iridescent wheel.

It is the hour of Raael, the sun God
who sits atop his throne
of storms and eels.
As dawn sieves
through a wreath of trees,
fingers inked in henna
trace the curve of charkhas,
tongue their melodies
and a carnival of threads
washes the fields.

Halasha;
women called to the craft,
their eyes an ocean gray and skin like gold hay
as they handloom a thread
so soft it sings of hushed clouds.

This wool,
Sheared from the throat and underbelly
of changpa goats,
under a wilted moon
they are carried to the meadows
in songs stolen from the old gods
so not to raise their ire, their wilful wrath.

Chasme bulbul and ribbed weaves,
an array of florals and cypress leaves;
motifs of small irises;
their hands skillfully weave.

In circles they sit,
their loom an extension of their wrists;
halashas chant pashm
an old gold weave,
A thread so fine
her whispers echo through time.

These yarns,
their indresent hush,
mulling chants of folktales lost to dust
and a Poetry of Pashmina threads the winds,
as it weaves its ways
across the meadow as the valley sings.