Holding the dish in her two hands,
she walked toward Sunday evening.
She smiled so quietly
and sat for a while in the dusk.
The tiny dish she brought home
was her supper from the noble ones;
we went to bed, I pondering
that they had eaten a potful.
She was my mother, small, died early
because washerwomen die early.
Their legs tremble from carrying,
and from ironing their heads ache.
For mountains—a pile of dirty clothes,
for a tranquil cloud at play—
the steam, and for a change
of climate—the attic.
I see her standing over her iron.
Her fragile body that Capital
broke became thinner, thinner—
think about it, proletariats!
From washing she was bowed, bent;
I didn’t know she was a young woman.
In her dreams she wore a clean apron,
and on those occasions the postman smiled.
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