I read your words etched on ancient pages.
From a different time,
Drifting through the ages.
What intricate thoughts passed through your mind,
Tingled the nerves of your spine,
And escaped through the tips of your fingers.

Is it a mirror image of a generation lapsed or a talent that still lingers?
When I compare our thoughts
And write down mine.
Different as they are, the intention’s the same.
To channel your feelings that are lying inside.
And to spill them out line by line like the ink splotching over your pages.

I’ve got along way to go to match your talent.
It might take a while,
With our opposite styles.
But maybe I’ll have my words drift through to another time.
Read in the future.
Passing down our line.

Your words may not have inspired your next generation, but, please, do not worry for this one.
The sunlight of your dreams may still be realised through the eyes of your grandson.