She'd sweep. She'd clean
and then she'd mop.
When she finished
she would drop
and wipe her brow
wet with sweat.
But she never cried
nor did she fret.
She'd sung. She'd whistled
and then she'd hummed.
When she finished
she succumbed
and lay right down
upon her cot,
too tired to think about
what her life was not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem