Your sacrifices, O mother: A poem 

The stars silently selflessly burn 

for us, so does the nurturing sun 

Who can say what is worthy when done? 

The seeming loser may have eventually won 

A proud albatross can soar and fly 

in the sky ever so high 

But in the humble, nondescript pen 

the low-flying hen protects her chicken 

A life is all rounds and squares 

that love and duty bears 

Their flesh is always done rare 

with tenderness and care 

Her kitchen was made up of sacrifices 

To the world, it may not amount to many spices 

But she did it all the same; this duty’s line 

Though it spread over an entire lifetime