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Wrinkled skin and a noble grin, yet a smiling grace,
What though in surreal thoughts o soul; I saw her emaciated face.
Age has draped her with its arms; time has pucked her fruit,
Her gushing heart still breathes in joy, ignorant of her roots.

Down the lane, by the woods, a cottage holds on earth,
Little granny perhaps alone, dwells in unbounded mirth.
Fetching woods from lands around, she got them all sold off,
Solitary days she lived in pride; though oft in fever and cough.

A little one with curly tail strolled her garden through,
She called him Ron with a soulful heart, an eensy earthen hue.
A stitching beast of iron touch had she in her hut,
Threading clothes for beloved Ron was still her fancy art.

A sun again whilst in its face, hued the scarlet sky,
A man in a cloak with lavish attire came as a meandering fly.
Knocking straight on the wooden door, his voice had trembled twice,
Granny with her wizened face, stared with drooping eyes.

Mother! I plead for mercy bliss; Let me be thy dust,
My greed hath stabbed my foppish soul and threw me down the crust.
I lost each mundane treasures on earth; all into the soil,
Let me serve thou for the days; I’ll live in vigorous toil.

She could see her beloved son rise from cinders pure,
She could see the sullen clouds leave a sky azure.
Her haggard eyes had gained a gleam, beaming with pride,
Beloved Ron too felt a warmth, his tears forgot to hide.

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