The night buried in your lap

the night was buried in your lap

and your apron modestly covered it

the light from the oil lamp

amplified the waves of the fabric

it was decided that you would

encompass all that was made

from the sun to the woods

and the sea, you poor maid

sadness was made yours too

by some dark chain of events

and the waves of your dress

you shyly hid from the light

so that none would perish

in its ebbing threads

nor lose sight in the buried night

that night buried in your lap