Sing not of crowns on brows of fame,
Nor voices raised in loud acclaim.
For silent strength, oft left untold,
Is worth far more than gems or gold.
She builds the world with tender grace,
Yet walks unknown in time’s embrace.
Her hands may stitch, may knead, may mend,
Yet never break, yet never bend.
She toils ‘til weary day is past,
And finds her peace in love steadfast.
A heart that beats in hush and glow,
Still shapes the tides of time’s long flow.
The hearth she tends, the child she rears,
The lamp she lights through countless years,
Are gifts no parchment e’er shall name,
Nor marbled halls preserve in frame.
Yet kingdoms rise and empires fall,
On strength so quiet, yet standing tall.
The cradle’s rock, the whispered song,
Have turned the weak to wise and strong.
The bread she breaks, the tears she hides,
Are testaments where truth abides.
No throne she seeks, no war she wields,
Yet sows the grain for future fields.
The mind that turns a stone to light,
That finds in dark the pathway bright,
The lips that heal, the arms that shield,
Have shaped the world, yet bear no yield.
For she who labors, loves, and gives,
Hath built the life by which man lives.
Why must she climb to summit high,
To prove her worth in others’ eyes?
Is not her grace, her quiet might,
As vast as seas, as sure as night?
For oft the moon, in silver hue,
Outshines the sun in midnight’s view.
Not every sword is forged of steel,
Nor every wound a foe must feel.
Some battles were fought, no banners show,
Yet shape the fate of all below.
And she, whose strength the world doth lean,
Doth fight unseen, yet stands serene.
Her laughter lifts, her sorrow mends,
Her wisdom guides, her spirit tends.
And though the books may fail her name,
The earth itself doth sing her fame.
For she, through love, through loss, through strife,
Hath breathed in man the breath of life.
The fields she sows, the cloth she weaves,
The home she guards, the heart that grieves,
Are chapters written in fate’s own scroll,
Yet seldom seen, yet oft the whole.
For what is man, and what his flight,
Without her hands to give him light?
The poet writes, the painter draws,
The warrior stands, the jurist laws.
Yet in the shadow of their claim,
She bears the weight, she feeds the flame.
No need for statues, songs, or bays,
Her legacy outlives the days.
The child she guides, the dream she sows,
Shall bloom beyond what history knows.
For time itself may bend and break,
Yet never shall her spirit shake.
She is the root, the rain, the ground,
Where all who walk in light are found.
Why must she rise in grand display,
To earn the world’s embrace, I pray?
Is not her worth in simply being,
The soul behind all life and seeing?
For gold may fade and crowns may rust,
But the love she gives shall never dust.
Her toil unseen, her whispered might,
Have turned the dark to dawn’s first light.
And though no song may sing her tale,
No age shall find her presence frail.
For she, in stone or silent air,
Doth shape the world with quiet care.
The mighty ships that cross the sea,
The books of lore, the songs of glee,
Owe birth to hands that none shall trace,
Yet formed the root of time and place.
No throne she seeks, no robe she wears,
Yet all who stand are raised by hers.
The wheel she spins, the bread she bakes,
The arms she lifts, the wounds she breaks,
Are empires wrought in woven thread,
Yet oft unsung, yet never dead.
For though her touch be soft, be slight,
It turns the wrong to make it right.
The years may fade, the earth may turn,
The stars may die, and the seas may burn.
Yet still her love shall weave the way,
Through every night, to find the day.
For she, the keeper, strong and pure,
Doth make all things through love endure.
O speak not only of those who rise,
On golden pedestals ‘neath the skies.
For she who stays, and she who stands,
Hath shaped the world with silent hands.
No honor more than this is true—
She is the flame in me, in you.
Not for the throne, nor for the prize,
Nor for the echoes of the wise,
But for the simple, steadfast soul,
Whose heart and hands have kept us whole.
A woman’s worth, no sum could tell,
For she who gives, gives all too well.
In every form, in every face,
She carries time, she weaves its lace.
And though her path be lined with stone,
Her strength is felt, her love is known.
For she, though never carved in clay,
Doth shapes the world in her way.
So let no voice forget her name,
Nor let the world forsake her claim.
For in her hands, the earth was spun,
The deed, the dream, the work begun.
And where she walks, and where she stays,
The world is brightened by her ways.

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