[It was back in 1980 or there about when I sat listening to my host’s dad tell his story while they prepared dinner for all of us.]
The old man sat in contemplative pose
Collecting thoughts of many years gone by
His ramblings doubtless lacked a certain prose
As memories came to words and there sat I
Just listening what was life in 1910
With passion in his eyes he told his tale,
A story surely told time and again
But now his voice was broken, weak and frail.
There’s history trapped within that agéd mind
Not sterile summaries of a few events,
But of a purer and unvarnished kind
Impassioned with nostalgic sentiments.
The story that one lives is never told
In spiritless accounts like history;
The books are never written by the old;
The truth remains enshroud in mystery.
So truer hearts who really want to know
The wisdom of our times that’s never read,
Passed by in rows of nursing home tableaux,
Will cherish while there’s time the hoary head.