” Crawling, slithering, wriggling on the mulberry tree;
Savouring the flavour, partaking in the feast ;
Tasting these juicy, sumptuous leaves;
Feasting on those fresh, young green addictions;
Such was my life ,
Happy, innocent and young , without even a strife.

Until the day I start spinning silk,
Preparing myself for hibernation, my delicate sleep;
My own sumptuous cocoon, of fine mine made silk;

But I had not known I was to die,
Killed in my sleep, burned mercilessly ;
By those sadistic, barbaric creations of God;
For their greed, for my silk.

They knew God had spawned me in such a way
If allowed to live, I would break my silk cocoon,
Their money into a million pieces
Little by little their dream would break into many tiny fine silk threads
None fit for their use, none worth me not laying dead.

Gandhi spinned cotton for my…