The Weaver of Truth

The Weaver of Truth

He sat by the spinning wheel,

not as a leader, but as a seeker.

The cotton rolled between his fingers

like clouds shaped by prayer.

His hands moved in rhythm,

each thread a verse of truth,

each turn of the wheel

a song of liberation.

The charkha was no machine —

it was his temple,

its hum the sound of conscience,

its motion, the breath of self-reliance.

He spun not cloth alone,

but a dream —

a dream where every hand would work,

and every soul would be free.

He wore the cloth he wove,

not out of pride but purity.

His body was covered in simplicity,

his heart clothed in compassion.

He spoke softly,

but his silence thundered louder than kings.

His steps were light,

yet they shook empires.

He was no warrior,

but his truth was a weapon

that cut through lies

without spilling blood.

He built no palaces,

yet ruled a billion hearts.

He owned nothing,

yet possessed peace itself.

He ate little,

slept less,

and worked endlessly,

weaving not fabric, but faith.

He believed every man

was his brother, every woman his mother.

He saw God in the sweat of labor

and divinity in the dignity of toil.

He turned hunger into prayer,

and pain into patience.

When the world mocked him,

he smiled and forgave.

He was made of clay,

yet shone brighter than gold.

He had no armor,

yet nothing could wound his will.

The British mocked his loincloth,

yet feared his bare truth.

He came unarmed to battle,

and the empire bowed to his word.

He taught us that

power is not in the fist but in faith,

not in the sword but in soul,

not in victory but in virtue.

He was a weaver —

but of a nation’s conscience.

He joined the torn threads

of caste, creed, and color.

He showed that freedom

is not granted, but earned —

earned by courage to forgive,

and the strength to endure.

He said, “Spin your own cloth,”

and we learned to spin our destiny.

He said, “Be the change,”

and the world began to move.

He was the mirror of our better selves,

reflecting what we could be.

He was the voice of our silence,

the hope of our despair.

He stood barefoot before kings,

yet they lowered their crowns.

He spoke to the mighty with humility,

and they trembled before his calm.

The charkha still hums his memory,

its threads still whisper his prayer —

“Work is worship, truth is life,

simplicity is strength.”

Even today,

in the hum of spinning wheels,

his soul speaks softly —

“Do not forget the poor.”

His ashes rest in the river,

but his light flows through every heart

that believes in peace,

that dares to be kind.

He was not born for one age;

he was born for eternity.

As long as hands weave,

his song will live.

The world may forget his face,

but not his faith.

His voice may fade,

but not his vision.

O Weaver of Truth,

spin once more within us.

Make our hands pure,

our hearts steadfast.

Teach us again

to live simply,

to serve humbly,

to forgive bravely.

For your charkha still turns

in the sky of time,

spinning the thread

of humanity’s conscience.

You were no king, no prophet —

you were the silent saint of truth.

And through your spinning wheel,

you wove the world anew.