A weaver from Radziszów
She weaved a husband
and a son on the looms
they lived together
in her house
the husband is ordinary
he can he liked,
probably he doesn’t drink
and doesn’t say much
the son is made out of soft wool,
his sandal unsure-afraid
to come down from the wall
to touch the ground with his foot
but she waits,
circles near the looms,
already very tired from weaving
since inremembered time
a letter to her God.
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