She Is The Fortress... Mother! ! Poem by WIN VENTURA

She shouts not to wound, but to shield,
Each word a sword drawn in the field.
Her fury flares when danger nears—
A warning shaped from buried fears.

Her hands are rough from sacrifice,
Trading comfort, paying price.
The world may see her tired eyes,
But never where her spirit flies.

She rose in nights when others slept,
Held tiny hands and secrets kept.
Skipped meals to see her children fed,
Placed dreams aside, and smiled instead.

Her love is not a gentle breeze—
It's mountain storms and rooted trees.
A quiet war she'll never speak,
But fights each day for those she keeps.

She walks with wounds no eye can trace,
A thousand trials worn with grace.
The world may see her tired frame,
But never guess the weight or flame.

When they fall, her heart breaks twice—
Once in pain, and once in price.
But never will she walk away,
Her love was born to fight, not sway.

Her voice may rise like thunder's cry,
A storm beneath a weary sky.
Yet in the tremble of her tone,
Love is etched in every stone.

Behind closed doors, the prayers begin—
A whispered shield, a quiet hymn.
She asks for strength, not gold or fame,
Only that her child be safe again.

She prays not once, but every hour,
Each breath a wish, each tear a flower.
Even when she's worn and sore,
She guards their names and prays for more.

The world may shift, and time may stray,
But she remains — in night and day.
The arms that scold, the hands that hold,
The heart that guards through young and old.

She gives, then gives, then gives some more,
Though never keeping any score.
And when she breaks, she breaks alone,
Then builds herself from skin and bone.

So if the path grows dark and wide,
Remember where true light resides.
A mother's love — not loud, but deep —
The kind that wakes, while others...

She is the storm, the wall, the flame,
The nameless shield, the sacred name.
Call her mother, call her grace—
In her arms, the safest place.

✍🏽 By: - WIN VENTURA