That widowed mother walked hill and vale,
Searching her only son who’d gone to war;
Love-blind; hopeful; day and night without fail,
Heart-aches; foot-blisters; full of scar and soar;

Stones pricking; thorns piercing; miles many tread,
The scorching sun and wild waves she withstood;
Sad! No trace of son’s footprints, tears she shed,
Each bird, each flower on her way she asked;

He’s dead, they said, in some war, so recent,
Keep calm! Take Rest! Offer prayers as one should!
Yet, hope doubled; task-focused; far she went,
No mirage, could ever, her true love shroud;

Winds and waves might erase your footprints, but
Who could, mother, the prints of love, wipe out?