In a tiny house, tucked away from bustling streets,
Amina resides, her sanctuary of solitude,
Where memories linger like ghosts in the shadows,
Whispering tales of sacrifice and forgotten dreams.

She was the elder sister, a pillar of strength,
Who poured her soul into nurturing,
Her siblings' laughter echoed through the halls,
Their futures woven from her selfless hands.

Days bled into nights, and years slipped away,
Her love an unspoken vow,
Yet in the silence of her cluttered rooms,
A heaviness settled, a weight she bore alone.

They grew wings, flew from the nest she built,
To distant lands, chasing their own suns,
Leaving behind the echoes of their childhood,
And Amina, with her worn-out heart.

No accolades adorned her tired brow,
No applause for the battles fought,
Only the ache of unspoken longing,
For hands that no longer reached for hers.

Now the house creaks with loneliness,
Its walls a witness to her silent tears,
The echo of their laughter a distant melody,
Haunting the corners of her fragile heart.

In the twilight hours, she sits by the window,
Gazing at a world that moves too fast,
Her reflection a map of lines and scars,
Each telling a story of love and loss.

For she gave everything, without asking for return,
And now, in the twilight of her years,
She finds solace in memories' embrace,
A bittersweet symphony of what once was.

Amina, elder sister, keeper of flames,
Your tears paint the sky with sorrow,
But in the depths of your quiet strength,
Resides a love that time cannot diminish.