The books my Grandpa read,

The words my Grandma wrote,

The things my Mother said,

The voice my Father spoke.

 

A song without a melody,

A gentle hand on tears,

A rythmn like a symphony,

To guide me through the years.

 

Who knows how it began,

As natural as the spring,

The words from all my past,

Began to build and ring.

 

I cannot keep them in,

No matter what I try,

I have larned to share,

Yet never to ask why.

 

You may not understand

What I have tried to say,

But someday, someone will,

And that is why I stay.