The Martyrs In The Silkworms..

The life of the little ones, not so beautiful, Though they have the code for the colorful fabric, Light as feather; feel like naked, once worn, Before starting the spinning, shed the skins, The perfect stage for the protective cocoon, The hermits want to have the slumber in, Unaware of the horror that awaits to get in, Meters of strong rope to protect their fortress, Uninterrupted yogi fast growing with no distress, Not knowing the wickedness at the threshold, Boiling the bounty of silk in the broth, Chasing out the pupae from their abode, Jumped into the boiling water to be scalded, The human scoop them out to fry and eat, The martyrs who produce the yarn, To clothe the rich and the king, End up as A tasteful delicacy, in poor silk producing countries.