In a village shaded by the ancients,

Lived Alma, a woman of grace and patience.

Her skin, rich as the earth's dark hue,

Held the stories of struggles she rue.

Each dawn, she rose with the sun's first light,

Her heart a drum, her spirit a might.

She walked to the river, her jug on her head,

Bearing life's burdens with a quiet tread.

The path was long, through forest and glade,

With shadows where sun seldom played.

Yet Alma moved with a purpose clear,

Facing each challenge without any fear.

Her hands were calloused, her fingers worn,

From fields where crops were slowly born.

She tilled the soil with enduring grace,

Though hardship lined her weary face.

She'd seen the specter of hunger's grip,

And watched loved ones on death's dark trip.

Yet in her sorrow, she found her song,

A melody of strength, steadfast and strong.

By night, the fire's warm embrace,

Lit her eyes and softened her face.

She sang to the stars, a timeless tune,

Her voice a balm, under the moon.

The village children gathered near,

To hear her tales of life and cheer.

She taught them the ways of the earth and sky,

The wisdom in her, a treasure bye.

Through drought and deluge, fear and strife,

Alma carried the weight of life.

Her soul, resilient, like ancient trees,

Found hope in every whispering breeze.

She planted seeds of love and care,

In fields of dreams, amidst despair.

Though life was tough, her spirit soared,

A testament to strength restored.

Her story, woven with grief and love,

A testament to the power above,

Echoed in the wind, and river's flow,

A tale of courage all should know.

In Alma’s eyes, the world was bright,

Even in darkness, she'd ignite

A flame of hope that others could see,

A beacon for all to strive to be.

Her legacy lived in tales she spun,

A life hard-fought, yet never undone.

In every heart her memory stayed,

A testament to a life well-played.