In the quiet corners of a troubled mind,
She nurtured life with hands so kind.
A poet’s heart, a mother’s grace,
In shadows deep, she found her place.

Her words, a mirror to her soul,
Each verse a fragment, making whole.
The cradle rocked with tender care,
Yet sorrow’s echo lingered there.

Beneath the surface, pain concealed,
The silent screams, the wounds unhealed.
A mother’s love, a poet’s cry,
The struggle hid within each sigh.

Sylvia’s pen, her voice, her art,
A testament to a fractured heart.
In motherhood, she found her way,
Yet darkness never far away.