She was old and her hands are gnarled now.
Her mind is blank and she has nothing to say.
She looks down most times and seldom does she think.
The old woman must be once pretty,
For her features are good.
She waits always at the same place,
Waiting for a morrow that never dawns.
Why so/For her light has gone out.
Her son, her son, he had gone before her.
Jayamala.
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