In the hush of autumn’s twilight grace,
Where valleys dance in soft embrace,
Beneath the mountains wrapped in blue,
Kashmir stirs with life anew.
October’s chill and November’s mist,
Kiss each crocus where sun and earth twist,
In fields that burn with crimson hues,
Villagers gather, paying dues.
Beneath the frost, in beds of soil,
Lies Kashmir’s pride, its sacred spoil,
The saffron threads, a fiery dream,
Handpicked from dawn till dusk’s last gleam.
Old hands and young, they walk as one,
A seven-generation run,
From Saffron Cottage to fields below,
Where autumn’s pulse begins to slow.
Each flower cupped in calloused palms,
Plucked with reverence, quiet and calm,
For only hearts that know this land,
Can hold its gold in gentle hands.
With fingers light and voices low,
The villagers reap what ancestors sow,
In rows where memories bloom and weave,
Under the soft and amber leaves.
They kneel, they sift through petals bright,
In fields that flame with morning light.
With care, they pull each fragile strand,
The essence of Kashmir in their hands.
Oh, saffron! Spice of sun and fire,
A thousand tales in red attire.
From valley earth, you rise and sing,
A song of Kashmir’s endless spring.
As autumn wanes and harvests cease,
The air grows thick with saffron’s peace,
And Saffron Cottage holds it near,
The heart of Kashmir, bold and clear.
In spice and color, warmth and pride,
Kashmir’s soul will not hide.
For through each thread of golden red,
Flows autumn’s life, the valley’s bread.
And so they gather, year by year,
The gift of saffron, rich and dear,
To share with all who taste and see,
The glory of this land, so free.