On Widowhood

Sanmao on widowhood
Originally uploaded by Bombie.

Poem by San Mao, translated by Bombie:

The rose climbs the wall slowly,
Even the moss is quicker,
The little dots of flowers are my stars, motionless.

So many years, the night can never pass,
The wait is like the Milky Way on my weave,
Weaving, weaving, I weave my little ferryboat.

Always people come, and ask me when I’ll marry,
I say, when this, one more budding bloom is done,
Then another, and another, and another…
…not before.

HOW TRUE !

'weave', 'weaving' used in place of 'sampler' and 'stitching' (source Bombie)