Once electricity is off, brown turns our faces
There used to be quietness round these places
And Mother's hand is invisible if she knits
Would flash about like you switch on lights
Holding the yarn's tail to avoid losing its ribs
Her skein she bends, and so her needle she dibs
She'd make some tight patterns, big and small
Some like broken holes through bricks of wall
And some black and white stones, she used to stave
To the old ones hats, Reminding them of death and grave
And to children's wears, some stitches of flowers
A charm to make them live their days withno cowers
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delightful! It reminds me of Dolly Parton's Coat of Many Colours.