I
In the eloquent hush, you moor your boundless love,
on morning’s threshold, yet to sigh its burdens.
You gather all weariness, transmuting it to solace,
though the world seldom whispers your name in vesper prayers.
II
You are the sun, unclaiming of the heavens’ vastness,
weaving scars into the soft cadence of cradle songs.
All that fades, you cradle with an eternal forbearance—
a love unfettered by pause or proviso.
III
Mother, you are the verse time etches without end,
each heartbeat a hallowed shrine of silent offering.
Within your pulse, we abide, never cast adrift,
for your love—unblemished, unseen—burns everlasting.
