Mami sewed dresses with a knee-pedal Singer,
cooked arroz-con-pollo in a blackened cauldron,
and formed footprints rain could not pat down.
She gave me an 8h of her soul,
her thirst for a fluid pen,
and her God.
My scarecrows are dressed in her designs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem