Her hands were worn like aged bark,
Yet soft as dusk, as kind as larks.
They wiped the tears, they mended seams,
They built my world, they shaped my dreams.

Her voice could still the roaring tide,
A whisper deep, a song inside.
And though the years have bent her frame,
Her love remains, untouched by flame.

The hands that raised me, held so tight,
Still guide me in the quiet night.
For love once given, never fades,
It lingers long, it never strays.