The Weaver of Worlds
From embers' breath, on the weathered stone, I write,
A firstborn whisper, birthing meaning's light.
A symphony I hum, a nascent tongue,
Language, a seed, from fertile silence sprung.
In sun-drenched squares, where minds in combat meet,
I clash with Logic, ideas at our feet.
Confucius whispers wisdom, on the wind I sigh,
A weaver true, shaping destinies that lie.
Across the plains, beneath the starry dome,
Bards sing my tales, a hero finds his home.
Hieroglyphs whisper secrets in the night,
My eyes, each symbol, stories held so tight.
The seeker peers, through wisdom's searching eye,
A labyrinth I weave, where meaning finds its sky.
Am I a label, cold and bare to touch?
Or a vibrant canvas, worlds I paint so much?
From Sanskrit's hymns to Aztec pictographs,
A tapestry I weave, where laughter softly graphs.
A chorus rises, diverse and strong and clear,
A bridge I build, that binds you, year by year.
Hands speak in markets, my vibrant, bustling hum,
Silence holds its weight, when words have all been numb.
A feather's touch, a balance held so true,
The power of the pause, whispers soft and new.
Glasses raised high, beneath the moonlit sky,
A symphony of voices, reaching ever high.
From whispers faint to battle's thundering cry,
Language, the weaver of worlds, that will never die.
Copyright ©
Dr. Padmashree R P
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