relics from another age,
lyrics written, yet to scan,
may yet when you turn the page.
Friends you never could have known,
loved ones that you never met,
you discover, once you're grown.
Know them now, and don't forget.
Journey back inside your mind,
hold the yellowed pages close,
though there's nothing else to find,
it feels you might. And there's the hope.
A garment from an attic trunk.
A photograph, in dusty frame,
to them, perhaps, a piece of junk,
but trash or treasure's all the same,
or so it seems, as time sweeps past
and swift obscures the curtained scene.
You never know just what will last
or what the smallest thing will mean:
unfinished stories, loved, he'd torn,
consigned the fragments to the flame --
and a great gift left to me, unborn,
when, casually, he signed his name.