When the monsoon rain drums soft on the roof,
The weaver begins her historical proof.
With a needle of steel and a thread of deep red,
The stories of life on the fabric are spread.
A piece of old sari, soft from the years,
Washed in the rivers and dried with her tears.
Layered with patience and stitched with a prayer,
To keep out the chill of the cold winter air.
The Lotus blooms in the center so bright,
A symbol of purity, beauty, and light.
While vines of the jasmine and leaves of the tree,
Wrap round the borders like waves of the sea.
Here is a tiger, and there is a bird,
The silent fables that nobody heard.
The sun and the moon and the stars in the sky,
Under the needle, they all learn to fly.
Each stitch is a heartbeat, a secret, a sigh,
Under the gaze of a flickering eye.
A map of the village, the path to the well,
A tapestry woven with stories to tell.
It isn't just cloth for a cold, lonely night,
It's a legacy shining in colors so bright.
The Nakshi Kantha, a warm, soft embrace,
The handmade soul of our heritage and grace.