Whispers of the Soul: Verses From Within

Coal Minin' Mama

In the heart of coal dust and midnight,

where shadows dance with echoes of picks and hammers,

there she stood, my mother, a miner of dreams.

A silhouette against the indigo canvas,

a survivor of the dark, where cancer tried to claim

what the earth, in its depths, could not yield.

Single-handedly she forged a home,

a crucible of resilience, an alchemy of love.

In the quiet roar of tunnels, she found her song.

Independence, her pickaxe,

strength, her lantern in the uncharted passages.

A trailblazer in the blackened corridors of adversity.

Her hands, once stained with the soil of toil,

became a canvas for tales of endurance,

etched in lines that told stories only I could read.

She, the architect of my roots,

sowed seeds of tenacity in the coal-strewn soil.

I, the sapling of her unwavering will.

In the hushed whispers of subterranean secrets,

she spoke of rising above, like coal dust on a breeze.

Her spirit was a flame that no mine could extinguish.

Two years have passed a mere blink

in the chronicles of eternal coal seams.

Yet, her light lingers, a guiding lantern in my darkness.

She was the miner, the survivor,

the single mother who sculpted my tomorrows.

In the silence of her absence, I hear the echoes of her strength.