In dawn’s pale light, she wakes alone,  
The house still silent, hers to own.  
A life of service, quiet, unseen,  
The hearth she tends, a humble queen.  

Her hands, worn raw, both soft and strong,  
Have swept the floors her whole life long.  
They knead the bread and mend the seams,  
They cradle babes, they hold her dreams.  

The kettle sings; the fire sighs,  
She stokes the flames, no time for cries.  
The washboard groans, the water steams,  
The linens scrubbed of dirt and dreams.  

She spins, she sews, the candle’s glow  
Her only rest as night winds blow.  
She patches trousers, frays undone,  
Until her hands meet morning’s sun.  

A dozen tasks for every hour,  
Her work unseen, yet shaped with power.  
The meals prepared, the beds made neat,  
The rhythm of her life repeats.  

No wage she earned, no voice to speak,  
Her worth was judged by hands that meek  
Would bow in grace, or serve in pride,  
Her name unknown, her role her guide.  

Yet through the kitchen's smoky haze,  
Her strength shone bright through endless days.  
A mother’s love, a steadfast wife,  
She forged her worth through daily strife.  

Her laughter rare, her sighs concealed,  
Her dreams, like folded sheets, were sealed.  
A life of duty, tied and bound,  
Where love and sacrifice were found.  

So let us speak her name aloud,  
The housewife lost within the crowd.  
Her care, her toil, her silent grace,  
Once shaped the world we now embrace.