Fragment No. 86

Weaving the Future — Piece 86

I opened the package containing Piece 86 of the dragon carpet. At first glance, I was captivated—by its contour, its palette, by the surviving shape whose texture reminds me of tree bark. Greens and blues meld with reds, yellows, ochre—abstract forms whispering secrets, like the crabapple tree I spent five years beside.

As when I explore the world of plants, or any “new” realm I enter, I bring no intention—only presence. I let the carpet speak, just as I let the leaves speak. I observe gently, with affection and quiet perception, and let the concepts and stories grow slowly from there.

My spirit is tinged by the resonance of my cherished crabapple, and the echoes of fellow weavers of Peace in distant lands fill me with hope—this vibrant threading of futures.

Then, one day, my hand traces the passage from rough knots of color into soft, white silence. In that silence, something shifted. The white grows vast in my mind—a shadowed emptiness of ash and sorrowful echoes.

I heard the screams of the burned, the cries of survivors, the tears falling on embers, the guttural sound of hunger in children’s bellies. Crackling blackened skin. Air unbreathable, searing lungs. Buildings collapsing—burying children, mothers, brothers, grandparents. Dogs, plants, beds, dining tables, lamps, toothbrushes, carpets.

The white of Piece 86 whispered extermination. Hatred masked in the language of truth and reason. The fanatic’s fire devouring nuance. The echoes of WWII bombs drowned beneath the roar of those still falling in our 21st-century world—where fanaticism, hate and dogma gain ground, cloaked in flags and fear.

Not all silences are the same.

There is the silence of erasure. Of censorship. Of disappearance. And then—the hush before a symphony rises, the quiet forest before dawn bursts into birdsong. There is the blank page where poems gestate, the canvas poised for marvels.

I hope. I hope. I hope the bombs will stop falling. I hope silence will announce the symphony of Peace. That the soft white of the disappeared will be woven into a colorful fabric—one that stitches us into Life, into Peace, through the radiant tapestry of Cultural Collabs.