In the quiet of the morning, before the dawn's first light,
A mother rises softly, preparing for the fight.
Her days are filled with labor, both thankless and profound,
In the endless work of motherhood, where true love is found.

She moves through every moment, with grace and silent strength,
Attending to the countless tasks, no matter what the length.
Her hands are never idle, her heart is ever near,
In the shadows of her sacrifices, her devotion is clear.

She weaves her love through meals prepared, through stories softly read,
Through gentle hands that soothe and care, and tuck each child in bed.
Her dreams she often sets aside, her needs go unaddressed,
For in her children's happiness, her weary soul finds rest.

No accolades, no grand applause, just whispered words at night,
As she kisses sleeping foreheads, and turns off the last light.
Her love is in the little things, the day-to-day, unseen,
In the thankless, endless work she does, her legacy serene.

So here's to mothers everywhere, whose love will never end,
In every selfless action, on their hearts we all depend.
Though often taken for granted, and seldom given praise,
Their endless, thankless works of love, light up our darkest days.
© Nidhi30