Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.
There was a time that I knew when things got too rough, I could go home.
Then one day, home was not, and would not ever be.
Stoically, I trudged on, for such is life, for one day too, I shall also be not.
To our mothers everywhere who once were, but are now not.
May they once again be.