A Mother’s Unyielding Love

In the quiet corners of her eyes, I see a lifetime etched in lines, A story of sacrifice, love, and strife, My poor mother—the compass of my life.

Her hands, weathered and worn, Weaving dreams into our threadbare days, Stitching hope into every tear, My poor mother—the silent hero we revere.

She carried burdens, heavy as stone, Yet her spirit remained unyielding, unbroken, Her laughter, a fragile melody in the storm, My poor mother—the keeper of our warmth.

When nights were cold and hunger gnawed, She whispered lullabies, soothing and raw, Her embrace, a sanctuary from life’s cruel art, My poor mother—the fortress of my heart.

Her eyes, pools of resilience and grace, Held secrets, fears, and unspoken prayers, She bore the weight of our fractured world, My poor mother—the silent bearer of our cares.

In her faded apron, she cooked love, Served it on chipped plates with grace, Her kitchen, a sanctuary of flavors and memories, My poor mother—the alchemist of our humble space.

She taught me courage, kindness, and grace, In her quiet strength, I found my place, Her love—an ocean, deep and uncharted, My poor mother—the map to where love started.

So here’s to you, my dear mother, In your wrinkles, I find wisdom’s cover, For all the sacrifices you’ve known, My poor mother, forever etched in my bones.