In the harsh, rugged cliffs where the wild winds blow,
Lives the Capra Hircus, adorned in winter's glow,
Its soft undercoat, a shield against the cold,
A tale of Pashmina, centuries old.
The spring arrives, the Pashm sheds away,
Collected with care, for the weaver's ballet,
To Kathmandu, it travels, a valley so fair,
Where magic is woven into the cool, crisp air.
The Pashm now becomes a yarn so fine,
In the hands of the weaver, it begins to shine,
On the wooden loom, under the artisan's care,
A tapestry of dreams, spun thread by thread with flair.
The woven Pashmina, so delicate and pure,
Is passed to the dyers, skilled and sure,
A splash of colour, a painter's delight,
Breathes life into Pashmina, turning day into night.
Some Pashminas then become a canvas vast,
For the embroiderer's needle, threading the past,
Stitches of Sozni, an art form rare,
Patterns of nature, with stories to share.
Finally complete, it begins the last mile,
From the heart of the Himalayas, crossing many a stile,
To reach your wardrobe, to drape your form,
In the touch of Pashmina, you'll feel warm.
So, when you wrap in your Pashmina shawl,
Remember its journey, remember it all,
From the lofty peaks where the wild winds rove,
To your loving arms, it's a tale of heritage and love.
