When the world turned it's face from mine ,she did not.
In quiet rooms where hope grew thin,she planted light.

Not with words,
bt with worn -out hands
That laboured past their breaking
To gather pieces of me
That I even had left behind.

She stood
Not loud ,but firm,
Whispering my name to God
When no one else remembered it.
She lit candles in her heart
And called that hope.

I saw her meets floors
More than her eyes met sleep
Heaven knows
What it means to be held
By a soul that bleeds but never breaks.

So when I speak of love,
Know that I mean her.
That woman who made home,
Out of scarcity,
And miracles
Out of me.