Mother

Beneath the weight of unrelenting skies,

She bore the brunt with unflinching eyes.

An effigy of fortitude and grace,

She vanished self to birth my place.

Her hands — those calloused, hallowed things —

Wove empires out of sufferings.

She toiled in shadows, cloaked in pain,

To crown my brow with fleeting gain.

What martyrdom she wore with pride,

While all her own desires died.

She silenced hunger, dreams deferred,

And stitched my path with every word.

She bled in silence, bent in strain,

Yet never let me taste her pain.

A citadel of endless will,

She stood—unyielding, deathly still.

When failure’s fog began to rise,

She lit my path with weary eyes.

Each whispered prayer, a scaffold made

From ashes of the life she laid.

She fed the flame that scorched her soul,

Endured to make my spirit whole.

She buried hope in barren land

So I could reap with steady hand.

Now as I soar—exalted, free—

She fades into obscurity.

But I know well this truth untold:

Her bones, her breath, my crown of gold.

O Mother—monolith of pain and grace,

You carved my future, left no trace.

A sovereign heart, so vast, so true,

I rose because you broke in two.