There is a thread that runs through all,
Unseen, but older than the stars—
A sacred weave of soul and soil,
Of whispered truths and ancient scars.It binds the humble to the high,
The farmer’s hand to banker’s pen,
The child’s cry to prophet’s sigh,
The now to all that’s ever been.Some pull the thread for selfish weight,
Unraveling others to climb fast—
They weave with gold and trade in fate,
And think the fabric will not last.But spirit does not sleep for long,
Nor turn its face from what is done.
The silent loom, though slow, is strong,
And justice spins for everyone.The ones who feast while others break,
Who laugh while stealing from the poor—
Will find their riches turn to ache,
Their doors unguarded, threadbare, torn.For every soul mistreated here,
A knot is tied in hidden space.
And when the wind of truth draws near,
The thread will find its rightful place.So take what’s yours, but not what’s owed,
And walk the earth with open hands.
The weave remembers every load—
And rights the loom by its commands.-gRj
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