The lines of age throughout his face
Moved only slightly as he traced,
In distant voice, his years of love,
Of hate, of life.

He spoke not near so much to me
As to his fading memories,
To show himself that he still knew
The Song of Life.

Reflecting joy and sadness, too,
Each memory seemed to live anew
And what he'd felt throughout the years
He felt again.

Content at last that he still felt
The pulse of life, he bowed and knelt
And prayed a tearful prayer of thanks
For lasting memories.