My mother is a seamstress.

The threads in the bobbin of the sewing machine,

which keep spinning for her entire life,

could tie the whole globe and cease its rotation.

The sewing machine is her soul,

the scent of the fabric is her life.

If we are able to sense the textile,

we could still carry on with our lives.

If the machinery still growls as days pass by,

I will be able to go to school and get educated like others do.

Shirts, skirts, and shorts dancing with all those people, 

even so, the back of my mother is already crooked, 

in her left eye pterygium now grows,

concealing her vision, making the eye of the needle even harder to see.

Nevertheless,

the scent of the fabric never fades away,

the sound of the sewing machine still clatters each and every day.

 

Written by Palang Piangpiroon

Translated by Parewa Pichayamarin

Revised by Tinaprapa Grodniyomchai