If words were like bubbles lifting on high,
Could they but float reaching the sky?
Would a power so divine, grace us his time,
Mouth this prayer, silent as a mime.

Selfish I am, I know, to ask reservation,
For remembrance of childhood elation,
When Mother was of beauty and youth,
Winning our minds with truth.

Stagger we did and stumble to fall,
All we had to do was call,
Acumen was as wise as any judge's voice,
Lifting snares from us, then free, we rejoice.

Here we stand at sunset's weary eve'
And, although she taught us to believe,
There is no way we can change this force,
Death and its finality follow its course.

These days the fashion is to cry of abuse,
Let the winds of rage be rested, set loose,
Stand you first in her tracks of terror,
All the hardship's of sorrow's bearer.

In the face of the wicked one she stood,
Daily keeping her stand as she should.
Whether race, morality, honor or grief,
Mother, through you, Creator gave relief.