I’m too tired to weave anymore
The first threads are already worn
My fingers started to bleed
turning blue to purple
The music no longer plays
The birds have flown
And in the cold of winter
You are now covered with all the rugs I have
I threw my heart on the fire to keep you warm
It sparked and crackled at first
Too tender to last for long
the flame dwindled
My evensong is now a lone voice
I recall you, I recall you
You walked away with a quick backward smile
When my fingers have healed
I will start weaving again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem