The Elder

A hundred years she had seen her exceed,
A hundred dreams she banished in vain,
Sons she raised and sons she buried,
A hundred things that caused her pain.
She was a sad yet heroic creation
With patience and endurance of celestial might;
Her life she cried in bitter remembrance
Of a life she dreamt, and ended in plight.
A half paralyzed body full of wrinkles and bed sores,
Though robbed of sight, she was sharp as a blade.
Behind her she left just white starched clothing,
And prayer beads that smelt of spring and glade,
Her last years were empty of light and life
Dribbling with spittle, aching with dread,
Her last breath peaceful, like a sigh of an angel
With the image of heaven in her impassive head.
The Elder, is gone, imparting a pensive emptiness,
That a life could be so laboured yet lost,
In our heart she had won a brilliant triumph,
A valiant esteem that all her dreams had cost.