A sewing room ablaze with sunlight-
a woman sits, bending over knotted seams
auburn locks aglow,
she muses on her happy life
as she sews bright roses -
'O what joy to be a loving wife! '
The sharp needle pierces a finger-
crude life intrudes with rude pain,
red droplets blossom and linger
on the delicate fabric, marked
with a scarlet stain of mortal sin!
The sewing room darkens.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem