The mute manuscript

By 

Can you decipher this silent script? 
It is the grace of what is worn.

This is not mere fabric. 
It is a culture. 
Do you wish to learn its language?

Do not gaze upon this image 
as though it were only skin. 
This is no commodity with a price tag, 
lifted from a shelf.

It is the soul of a land. 
And tell me, 
what currency can buy that?

To me, a garment is a mute manuscript, 
inscribed with the ink of history.

Do not look at me 
and see only a woman. 
What I wear are the memories of a people, 
woven into every thread.

Do not ask me of “style.” 
Style is a hollow word 
for those who have severed their roots.

Every line in this cloth is a sentence. 
Every pattern, a piercing question: 
Who are you? 
Where do you belong?

That is why it remains silent. 
To those who cannot read, 
even the loudest language 
keeps its peace.

I am here to remind you 
that we have yet to learn 
how to truly see.

Stop staring at the surface. 
Search, O seeker, 
for what lies unseen.

For some clothes are not merely worn. 
They are spoken.

And if you cannot hear their voice, 
the flaw lies not within the garment, 
but within our own 
cultural deafness.