The Warrior Grandma
O’er those lush hills, nestled in a hushed vale
Lives a vivacious Grandma, aged, forlorn,
Winter white hair, wizened skin, gnarled fingers
Brumous eyes exuding a lambent glow
Morning wakeup call "Cock-a-doodle-do"
She lights her stove, cooks delectable snacks
Defying age, her jocund spirit gleams
When she serves street orphans, her meals, homemade
Evening, she collects fallen berries, sweet
Assorted veggies, garden-fresh, tempting
Puts them on sale, long queue of buyers lined
Ne’er depends she, on a soul, for money
Living in the present, her life’s motto
Serving the homeless, her ardent passion
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