Today I lay awake trying to will myself to my chores, with a man whom I am not inspired by, with a child I have no motherly passion for I do today entertain my weary mind while I work with the song of the shirt.
With fingers weary and worn, With eyes heavy and red, A woman sits in unwomanly rags, Plying a needle and thread, In poverty hunger and dirt, She lifts her head and sings the song of the shirt
“Work Work Work
While the cock is crowing in the dawn on the roof
and Work Work Work
Till the stars shine on the roof
To this life I am a slave
With never a soul to save
Work Work Work
Till the brain begins to swim
Work Work Work
Till my eyes grow heavy and dim
Sew and stitch and button and seam
Till over buttons I fall asleep
And sew them on in a dream
Work Work Work
my labor never flags
and what are its wages?
barely any rest and rags,
what is hear that I have to show a broken table and broken chair
A wall so blank
My shadow I thank for sometimes falling there
Work Work Work
In dull December light
Work Work Work when the weather is warm and bright
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
as if to show me their sunny backs
and taunt me the spring
Oh I wish I could breathe a breath
of spring air warm and sweet
with sky above my head and grass below my feet.
For only one short hour
I wish to feel as I used to feel
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal.
I wish I could only acquire one short hour
A respite however brief
but there is no time for love or hope,
Only time for grief
A little weeping would ease my heart,
in my bed,
but my tears must stop for every drop
Hinders my needle and thread.
2 comments
Wow.i love it.reminds me of the black slave books i used to read.of black slave women
lol, well, I just sing this song while I’m doing laundry, srubbing pots and the like. I feel often overwhelmed by my chores. My family feels its the only thing I’m allowed to do and when I’m done to sit in the closet till I’m called on. So singing the song of the shirt is the last thing I have really. I can’t remember what it is like to have a dream or to want anything anymore. I don’t remember what real living is anymore. I don’t have any desires except to die. I feel like I really am at the end but in order to provide my family with happiness I must press on and do what I am told. I don’t know how long I’ll hold out till I find an inexcusable opportunity to die.