I wish to  be the  Weaver of Light,
to  gather  whispers from the void,
making thoughts to spin  into golden thread.
Do stars protest the names they’re given,
unknown to them, yet spoken loud?
Does the ocean mourn for waves absorbed,
as tides reclaim them from the crowd?
Let them dance in fleeting shadows,
wear crowns of mist that fade with dawn.
For time is never deceived by echoes;
what’s truly made is never gone.
So I weave on, unseen but  certain,
my magic stitched in every seam.
For hands that craft the world’s great wonders
hold power far beyond their dream.

In the village, time doesn’t rush—
it drifts, like the warmth of the morning sun.
No ticking of clocks, no chasing of deadlines.
Just the gentle unfolding of days, one by one.

Here, everyone knows your name,
and it is not just a greeting;
it’s a reminder that you are seen—
a part of something real, something solid.
Help is just there, without asking,
like a neighbor’s smile or a hand on your back.

Life is simple, but it is full.
A quiet evening with a cup of tea,
a walk along the road with no destination,
and the comfort of familiar faces,
knowing you are never truly alone.

Childhood here wasn’t about toys,
but about making memories with mud and the earth.
Climbing trees, racing down dusty muddy paths,
laughing so loudly it seemed to shake the sky,
feeling free with every step we took.

The land feels like family;
its earth, walnut trees, babbling brooks
and the murmring Brengi,
are always close, always home.
The sound of rain on the roof,
the chirp of crickets at night,
the stars—so close,
they feel like they’re listening to your dreams.

You won’t find fame here,
but you will  find a place to be yourself,
where your worth isn’t measured by what you have,
but by the way you treat the land,
and the way you care for each other.

The village isn’t big or glamorous,
but what it holds is true.
It is in the quiet moments,
the everyday kind of love,
and in the roots that keep you grounded,
even when you wander far from home.

That’s why I live in “The Village” , my dear Friend !!

The wind never asks where it is going,
the river never wonders where it ends.
The flame doesn’t chase its own light,
but I keep searching,
forgetting I was never lost.

I call myself a seeker,
but the path was never hidden.
I knock on doors
that were never closed.
The stars hum—
there is no distance,
only the space we create.

I hold the river in my hands,
the sky rests in a single drop.
I breathe, and the ocean moves through me.
I still ask, Who am I?
as if the rose ever doubts its bloom.

The moth enters the flame,
not to burn, but to belong.
The wave bows before the shore,
the night folds into dawn.
Nothing fights what it was meant to be.

So I stop. I let go.
No walls, no lines, no searching.
The questions fade, the knowing stays.
What I longed for was never far,
it was always within me.

Showkat Shah