Yellow clouds beside the walls; crows roosting near.
Flying back, they caw, caw; calling in the boughs.
In the loom she weaves brocade, the Qin river girl.
Made of emerald yarn like mist, the window hides her words.
She stops the shuttle, sorrowful, and thinks of the distant man.
She stays alone in the lonely room, her tears just like the rain.
she looks pretty – thru’ filters
colours bright – not her own
A Personality concealed behind
walls made of chauvinist stone
the person weaves endless nights
voiceless words, a light un-shone
when she goes, Work will speak
buried thoughts – you don’t bemoan