To the Queen of help I dedicate this
Tears of desperation washing her face,
Perfume in the air, hands deep in her purse;
Searching for the lost, trash filled the place,
Taking her time, afraid fearing the worse.
A tick of a clock, time to leave the gable,
No coffee this morning, apple will do the fine;
The few coins she had, spread over the table,
A guest she has to feed, austere holding the line.
Trait of honor, a rock facing the flood,
A chest full of love, always at the call;
Queen of help, ready to offer her blood,
Silent the whisper, eyes telling it all.
From all the world, she only needs a five,
A little money, she could get last night;
The Jobless her guest, fighting to survive,
She gave a promise, to save him the fight.
Lost in her hope, not finding her money,
In Search of her five, not able to find;
She will play the lotto, and count the many,
One half for her guest, the queen of her kind.
Father of her Christ, Pope of her Jesus,
Beatrix the saint, please do recognize;
To the five, add all her golden wishes,