Woman

She walks like dawn across the cobbled lane,
Her laughter soft as rain upon the pane,
Eyes hold the quiet strength of ancient oak,
A steady pulse that none can ever broke.

In kitchen hush she tends the simmering pot,
With hands that mould both sorrow and what’s not;
She stitches seams of hope in woolen thread,
And mends the frayed hearts where love has fled.

Her voice, a hymn that lifts the weary soul,
A compass pointing where the lost may stroll;
She bears the weight of generations’ dreams,
Yet wears her crown of humility, it seems.

Oh, woman—beacon, keeper, flame, and flower—
In every age you bloom, you bind, you power.