Summer 1968 • Vol. XXX No. 3 PoetryJanuary 1, 1968 |

Mother

Holding the dish in her two hands, she walked toward Sunday evening. She smiled so quietly and sat for a while in the dusk.The tiny dish she brought home was her supper from the noble ones; we went to bed, I pondering that they had eaten a potful.She was my mother, small, died early because washerwomen die early. Their legs tremble from carrying, and from ironing their heads ache.For mountains—a pile of dirty clothes, for a tranquil cloud at play—the steam, and for a change of climate—the attic. I see her standing over her iron. Her fragile body that Capital broke became thinner, thinner—think about it, proletariats!From washing she was bowed, bent; I didn't know she was a young woman. In her dreams she wore a clean apron, and on those occasions the postman smiled.

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The Summer

By Attila Jozsef

Holding the dish in her two hands, she walked toward Sunday evening. She smiled so quietly and sat for a while in the dusk.The tiny dish she brought home was […]

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