Oh, giver of life, bearer of burdens,
The one who held me when I was weightless,
Who carved from her days a path for my feet—
How is it now that I stand before you,
Palms stretched, seeking,
When it should be I who fills your hands?
Once, you conjured meals from bare cupboards,
Sewed warmth into worn-out clothes,
Turned scarcity into stories of hope,
And I, unknowing, lived as if the world
Would always be full because you willed it so.

Yet now, in this hour of reversal,
When my hands should be the harbor of comfort,
I find them trembling, empty still.
To ask you—oh, to ask you—
Feels like stealing from the moon her glow,
Like reaching for the sky and pulling down the rain.

You smile, though I see the weight in your gaze,
A softness laced with sorrow,
A kindness that forgives before I even speak.
How cruel, this world,
That time should make me late in my giving,
That love should stand in the shadow of need.

Oh, Mother, may my days be swift to change,
May fortune soon fill these calloused hands,
That never again shall you turn out your pockets
Only to find echoes where gold should be.

And when that day comes, as surely it must,
Let me lay in your palms what you once laid in mine—
Not just coins, not just comfort,
But the deep, unwavering rest
That a mother deserves.