I like the way she works.
I love to see her working, because she can't see me when I do. She
works with patience, she works in silence, her gaze staring at the
spinning wheel. There is nothing else in her life, but her work is
not slavery, it's an effort to clean herself, to become better, to
deserve what she desires. She's worthy, she deserves the best, she
gets her hands dirty but doesn't need to pray with them.
I'm sure someday she will
reach happiness. She's more like a steady spider, with so many
hard-working hands and eyes, who weaves her web only some inches
above the ground in hope to catch a falling star in it: her unique
and true desire, because her happiness is only in herself.
She traps children's books,
ResponderEliminarshe doesn't let them to escape.
"You mustn't enter my dome
'til my job is done".
She bites and poisons,
she's a widow of life
because life is no work.
But in the end she will leave
being an angry fiend.
She will wear the dress she had made,
and I'll still be her friend.