I did not weave the linen where you lie;
I did not gather flax nor spin this thread,
but I will sew the sheet up and I’ll tie
a different knot to keep you in my bed.
And I will wash your hands and your cold feet
as once I washed the shirt upon your back;
And I will make the stitches small and neat
that mend you in this shroud, your sleeping-sack.
I’ll sing to you a lullaby of screams;
I’ll cry ochón instead of tura’lu
to send you on your way into the dreams
you dream without me, and I, without you.
I wear the cloth you taught me how to weave:
it’s women’s work to sew, to mend, to grieve.