Under skies brushed by heaven’s light,
In the quiet dawn, pure and bright,
Kashmir awakens to a sacred call,
Where fields of saffron bloom and fall.
Beyond the scent, beyond the soil,
Lies an art, a centuries-old toil.
With each gentle, humble, golden thread,
A history woven, a legacy spread.
The harvest begins in autumn’s embrace,
As purple blooms cover earth’s face.
Farmers gather with hearts so true,
In every petal, dreams are renewed.
They kneel to pick, soft and slow,
Fingers light as the first mountain snow.
Each delicate stigma, each whisper of red,
Carried with reverence, like prayers unsaid.
For this is more than earth’s mere yield,
This is the heartbeat of Kashmir’s field.
A craft passed down, from young to old,
In saffron’s warmth, stories are told.
See mothers lean, with tender hands,
Beside their daughters on this sacred land,
Teaching patience, respect, and pride,
In each thread, their heritage tied.
The saffron harvest, a fleeting grace,
A dance of hands in a time-bound space.
And as each bloom is laid to rest,
The land and spirit are richly blessed.
At Saffron Cottage, by fires aglow,
Stories of ancestors gently flow.
Seven generations, their spirits sing,
For saffron’s gold—the valley’s spring.
It’s more than spice; it’s more than trade,
It’s the song of valleys, mountains, and glades.
An emotion shared, a passion refined,
In the harvest of saffron, we’re deeply entwined.
Here, in each fragrant, crimson bloom,
Lives Kashmir’s heart, dispelling gloom.
A gift of sun, soil, and soulful hands,
Golden threads spun from beloved lands.
And as the valley breathes its tale,
Through saffron fields and misty veils,
We know that here, in every harvest bright,
The soul of Kashmir finds its light.