What a soft touch you have, mother of all.
Norms and laws stuck their paws yet you endured.
The poor are cured yet you’re accused of being the cause.

They seek for you in caves your grace then later say you’re their grave.
Your call is of a thousand chariots driven by thunder,
It can never be ignored

Women of old take us under your wings
And let not your name be called in our graves,
At least not at an early age.