She walks as a pilgrim, weary and torn,
A mother abandoned, a heart forlorn.
Her child, once cradled close to her chest,
Now calls her a burden, denies her rest.
Not strangers, but whispers poisoned his ear,
Greed-fed voices she longed not to hear.
They spoke of wealth, of lands and gold,
And he believed them—her story untold.
If he had asked, she would have given,
Her hands were empty, but her heart was driven.
For treasures she held were never the land,
But the warmth of his face, the touch of his hand.
She kneels at shrines with trembling knees,
Praying his soul finds gentle peace.
Yet disbelief burns like a silent flame,
That her own blood would forget her name.
Still she wanders, with eyes that weep,
Carrying promises she cannot keep.
A pilgrim not seeking heaven above,
But a son’s lost glance, a son’s lost love.
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