The Merchant of Meaning
The rugs are laid in colored rows,
Each thread a tale, each pattern knows.
The merchant bows, then lets you see
That beauty’s price is mystery.
To buy such art is to begin
A deeper trade that lies within.
She wears a tiara of stars above,
Each jewel a vow, each light a love.
Her crown does not command or shine—
It marks her as the soul’s design.
To carry cosmos on your head
Is to be clothed in what was said.
