Long time I looked at your hands. Mornings and afternoons passed like needle in the textile. Ticking days have gone under your fingers. The lamp on the sewing machine was a spotlight on your traditional costumes. With my eyes closed I imagined our folk dances. Life can tear you like a torn dress. You taught me to mend and now you can see what binds me to you. Look the shelves of our shop, the arms of  brides, school children and theater dancers. The thread that unites us has no ends. You were with me. You are here. In your silence I’ve found my future.

Zhaneta, Craft Clothing, Elbasan