The Commoner’s Mother
No crown she wore, no throne she knew,
She walked where weary spirits grew.
No gold, no silks, no royal gleam,
Just sari white, a whispered dream.
Its borders blue, a silent prayer,
Her hands, a balm for all despair.
She gave a voice to those unheard,
And healed with silence, not with word.
"Peace begins with a smile," she'd say,
And with that smile, she lit the way.
She touched the dying, kissed the sore,
The poor, her "richest store."
"The most terrible poverty," she knew,
"Is feeling unloved—unseen, untrue."
She knelt where others dared not tread,
And lifted lives, each broken head.
Abandoned child, the old, the bent,
Her world they were, her sacrament.
An angel from a foreign land,
Across the seas, the snow, the sand,
Calcutta's dust, India's wide land,
The world's harsh streets, she understood.
Each life the same, a fragile plea,
She wept and prayed for them, for "me."
"We fear tomorrow's unknown face,"
She warned, "because we waste today's brief grace."
Yet every moment, in her hold,
A prayer became, a story told:
"Do small things with great love," she'd tell,
And in those acts, she loved so well.
She judged no soul, she simply gave,
Her kindness deep, her mercy brave.
No praise she sought, no fleeting fame,
But walked the streets in God's own name.
A stone she cast, not hard, but kind,
And left a thousand ripples behind.
"A life not lived for others dies,"
So she became the hands, the eyes,
Of love for all the world's dismissed—
The ones the mighty often missed.
In humble dust, her worth she found,
And brought a quiet peace to ground.
O Mother of Peace, so small, so grand,
With rosary beads in calloused hand,
You taught us how to truly live—
To smile, to serve, to humbly give.
You showed us love is not above—
It walks with us. It is enough.
No queen with power, no mighty sword,
But common as the simplest word.
And in your gaze, the world could see—
The face of God, in you, in me.
From India's heart, our thanks we send,
For service true, until the end.
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