Those little eyes,
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They had so much pain, agony.
They were not a pair or two but,
They were so many.
That wrinkled face, feeble hands,
They showed the weakness, the pain.
The wrinkles were few but,
The pain very large.
The hands were weak but,
Not weaker than her heart.
The eyes, face, hands,
Which once were so bright, beautiful, and nice,
These are of a mother, a grandmother
Sitting alone at the altar.
She needs your hand, more than her own
She needs love from you,
Very little from what to her you own
Still today at the altar she is praying
For your life, not hers.
'Coz for her she thinks; only death she deserves.