(in memory of my mother weeding)
in bent posture
a woman moves
along the drills
occasionally
she straightens
and the sun
brightens
a furrowed brow
on she goes
with back breaking
movements
her purpose
to ensure life
in the grasping act
of death
her form melting
into the landscape....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem