THE WEAVER'S SONG

In the bustling lanes of Varanasi,

Where silken threads tell ancient tales,

Lived Kamala, a weaver's daughter,

Whose fingers danced with yarn and water.

One day, by the river's edge she wove,

Listening to whispers from above,

An old woman with weathered eyes,

Passed by and spoke, to her surprise.

"Kamala dear, your hands divine,

Hold the magic of ancient twine,

Seek the loom beneath the banyan tree,

For there lies secrets, pure and free."

With heart determined and spirit bright,

Kamala sought the tree at night,

Through alleys dark and lanterns' glow,

To the loom where dreams would flow.

Beneath the sacred banyan's shade,

She found the loom, where fate was laid,

Its threads sang tales of love and pain,

Of queens and kings in golden reign.

From that moment forth, Kamala knew,

Her craft was more than colors true,

To weave the stories of her land,

In every fabric, magic grand.

So in the city where spirits sing,

Kamala's hands became the wing,

Of legends woven, thread by thread,

In Varanasi, where dreams are bred.

Thus ends the tale of Kamala's art,

In Varanasi, where spirits dart,

In every fabric that she spun,

The weaver's song, forever sung.