La Costurera

Now that the angels are sleeping
Now that it's when it's better
The fingertips run through their temples
A low updo
And a flower is planted

She caresses her strong cheekbones
She thinks
That who will take care of her better
Works slowly but doesn't get distracted
Today there are several little rags
Let the show begin
And while she dances
The air with the curtains
María imagines sewing tied lives
The sewing machine hums
And she moves to the beat of bulerías

Ball of yarn in a cornstarch
And bread crusts
Ball of yarn in a cornstarch
And bread crusts

Behind the applause
Behind the candles
An artist is not just anyone
But neither is the artist
Who is most revered

An artist is my mother
An artist was my grandmother
An artist is the one who cries
And the one who appreciates
The napkin origami

The improvised flowers
The rhythm with hands and legs
The lamp recycler
The child who creates in the earth
The cook who tastes before
The seamstress, God
And the one who wakes up in the fall

And while she dances
The air with the curtains
María imagines sewing tied lives
The sewing machine hums
And she moves to the beat of bulerías
She sews with fine thread that love
Is running out
Mends those fringes that are art
Your hands
She sews with fine thread that love
Is running out
Mends those fringes that are art
Your hands

That art is your hands
That art is your hands
That art is your hands
Are your hands