stitched from unknown hands
with unknown wrinkly imperfections
wearing a burden
someone stitches for us
for a few dollars
or cents in a foreign currency
our tags tell
of a distant land
filled with the billows
of hard work
not ours
as we claim as our own
The world spins
as the weaver winds
and dear China sends
us the fruit of its labor
a few cents, yes, but admiration and joy is truly what the creator really wants.
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