The Weaver of When

Time is not a river’s flow,
Not tide nor wind, nor melting snow—
But rather, in the realm unseen,
A weaver sits in dusk and sheen.
Not old, not young — beyond all years,
With hands that stitch the joy and tears.

A cosmic loom of stars and thread,
Of silver hopes and roses red,
Of violet dusk and amber sighs,
Of emerald truths and lullaby skies.
Each thread, a moment, lived or lost,
Each color, weighed in grace and cost.

The Weaver hums in quiet grace,
A spindle dancing through all space.
The threads are woven side by side,
The births, goodbyes, the love, the pride.
A wedding veil, a cradle sheet,
A soldier’s scarf, a child’s heartbeat.

But soon the hum becomes a groan,
As mortal minds claim time their own.
“Faster,” cry the cities loud,
Their towers piercing through the cloud.
“More,” chant mouths with golden lust,
Unraveling the sacred trust.

The loom jerks sharp — the fibers snap,
The tapestry folds in a gap.
The reds bleed into mournful greys,
The golds are dulled by neon haze.
Where once was rhythm, patient, wise,
Now trembles chaos in disguise.

A thread once meant to bind with care
Is tangled by despair’s cold stare.
Moments misaligned like stars askew,
The pattern gone, the purpose too.
The Weaver’s fingers start to shake,
Knots bloom in love’s intended wake.

Yet in the loom’s forgotten fringe,
Where tangled ends begin to singe,
One thread remains — untouched, ignored —
A gentle hue the world once stored.
A thread of kindness, small and shy,
Not meant for fame, nor asked why.

A girl who gave her only bread,
To one with eyes of rusted dread.
A boy who stood though mocked and bruised,
To shield a truth the world refused.
Their acts, not grand by earth’s loud scale,
But stitched with light the dark can’t pale.

The Weaver finds this silent cord,
And holds it like a sacred sword.
Its color? Not a single shade —
But shifting tones the heart has made:
From cherry blush to ocean deep,
A palette born from those who leap
Into compassion’s quiet flame,
Who give with love, not seeking name.

The thread is slipped into the mess,
And lo — the chaos curls to bless.
A knot becomes a blooming rose,
A tear becomes a thread that glows.
The loom resumes its hallowed pace,
The Weaver’s hands reclaim their grace.

The tapestry begins to heal,
A mandala of woe and zeal.
Though still the rush of mortals stings,
The thread of kindness softly sings.
Its hum is woven through each line —
The warp of fate, the weft divine.

Time, the Weaver, learns anew
That progress must not blind the view
Of what connects and what redeems —
Not metrics, but unmeasured dreams.
And thus, each second gently sewn,
May bear the hue of love once shown.

- Khushi Kaul