I used the needle in and out
and fashioned a fancy frock.
I listened to you read to me
and hated the tick of the clock.
For time with you was sweet but small
and never could it last.
Your hand on mine was all I had
and then the die was cast.
I continued to cross stitch after you.
I recited your words as I walked the moor,
the only comfort that I could find
to fill my mind like you did before.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I found this poem sad but beautiful.