O mother-pillar of the dawn— Whose body brings forth light. Thou poureth without measure, and yet seeketh no recompense.
You stand firm as the mountains, hewn from rock and do not faulter. Thou singest lullaby's midst war, against a hidden hand.
I knew not how your hands ached how life sought to devour thee. I mistook your tiredness for stillness, not knowing still waters carry the most weight.
O mother—whose foot does not faulter— on the jagged stone. to what can one measure, the love of a mother? Mayest thou point to god and non other?