Real Silk from Mother's Hand
Mother grows mulberry to feed worms,
Manual labour of dedication;
She draws silk threads in dreamlike forms
To weave the fabric of her creation.
Every thread's imbued with her spirit,
Maternal embroidery of each cloth;
Her foot repeats rhythm of heartbeat;
Her hand jerks the bobbin back and forth.
This new piece of shawl to me she gives
With love loomed into every strand;
A life of motherly devotion she lives,
Links her heart to each shimmering band.
I hold up my shawl, mother's gift,
Inter-woven of her precious silk,
Her brave soul and moral uplift,
With the blessing of mother's milk.
I can clearly see her delicate hand
That she sometimes used to spank one;
Single-handedly she will withstand
Every danger to defend her son.
With this hand she builds lifetime's work,
With no recompense or relief,
Then sits at the loom round the clock
To labour on this silken kerchief.
She has trained her fair daughter
To obey the weaver's behest
And follow her footsteps thereafter;
For mother's weary hands must rest.
She taught her son to be proud:
If you love me, she says, ne'er relent,
Even if they put you in a shroud,
To fashion free men's covenant.
One day surely I will be gone.
You, children, can continue to weave,
With mother's silk and children's yarn,
So the old cloth can turn a new leaf.