Seven daggers pierce the heart where sorrow weeps,
A crown of anguish set in sacred woe.
Each wound a tale of love the soul still keeps,
Each tear a river where her children go.

They killed you, Mother, yet they bow and pray,
Barefoot, on knees, their whispers fill the air.
For gifts, for glory, cures to light their way,
For sacred hope that blooms beneath despair.

No lies she speaks, her promises are true,
Her veiled eyes see the depths of our regret.
You’ll die as well—this life is but a hue
Of fleeting light; she’ll guide where fears are met.

Adore her name, though grief her visage bears,
For love eternal sanctifies her tears.