In fields where mountains watch and wait,
Blooms the rarest golden fate.
A tale spun deep in petals small,
Kashmir’s gift to one and all.
A hundred years, a thousand hands,
Tend the earth, these blessed lands.
In fields where frost and bloom collide,
A saffron flame that cannot hide.
Kong Posh, a name so true,
With each petal kissed by dew.
From soil to sun, a legacy grows,
In saffron’s grace, the spirit flows.
Generations pass the flame,
Eternal saffron, endless claim.
Our forebears worked by dawn’s first light,
In saffron’s glow, they forged the night.
The cottage walls are steeped in sun,
Where seven legacies are spun.
In every thread, a memory kept,
Where ancestors toiled, where mothers wept.
Bright as dawn, deep as night,
Kashmir’s blood, our saffron light.
A whisper of spice, a touch so rare,
Of love, of hope, of life laid bare.
Across the mountains, hills, and streams,
Our saffron shines, a crimson dream.
From one small flower, a nation’s pride,
In saffron’s threads, we all reside.
Seven generations’ work and grace,
In every harvest, we find our place.
At Kong Posh, this legacy flows—
A thousand petals, a thousand glows.