DID YOU WEAVE IT, MY MOTHER?

By Yasen Vedrin

(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)

Did you weave it, my mother, that last woolen rug on the loom,

From those rags that you cut into pieces, so many and small?

In my shattered, old memory, holy and clear through the gloom,

You alone have remained, and to God for your eternity I’d call.

Did you weave all my old recollections – to step and feel warm?

To be breathed by the magical scent of a quince on the shelf...

To tell you without voice that you are my protection from storm,

Like a living icon that the heart never hides from itself.

Did you weave all my tears that I wept since a boy in the street,

With my knees torn and bleeding, and burning from nettles like fire?

Did you weave all the sparks that remained in the bread-morsel sweet,

And the hard clods of earth by the field of our village and sire?

Did you weave all the sighs in your quiet and passionate mind?

By my white little bed from the eve till the morn you would stay...

Did you weave all the seasons that left you so silver and kind,

And that painted your face with the wrinkles of heavy decay?

You have woven it all, I well know... And the gate speaks your name.

By the locust tree, empty, that rug is now spread on the ground.

On my knees, I now kiss your bright spirit. I’ll pass just the same,

But I’ll pass to my children your shuttle from looms you have wound.