I was five, a little girl, could hardly reach there; where the memories hid themselves,
Eyes whispered something to my mind, what is so special about the shelf?
A dusty red book, a thread of black to bind its old black page,
Everyday, day after day, I looked at it in awe and to get a glimpse of it someday.
I asked my father what was there, that he held so safe,
Tell me what’s that old book of red; are there stories to be shared?
He looked at me and said so soft, in there are the memories of a man.
Man! Who is the one you talk about, father let me know?
Then each day he shared his stories.
Stories of his love and care, his great work and compassion,
His masterpieces, he left behind and the glorious life he led,
The carving on the lifeless wood, with sand and mud he played,
The work of his hand brought life to everything that he made.
The red book of memories was shown to me one day,
The pages were soft and the memories were safe in there,
Eyes he had of some sparkling jewel,
Hands that molded clay, painted stories with his brush.
Melodies he made with this violin, plants and even trees danced,
To the music that he played, It’s not me who just say,
I heard it once from his beloved student, when he once came to his grave.
I ask my father, is this true? He said, just believe what he says.
There I knew my granddad, was truly a man of strong faith,
He did had something divine in him and he didn’t belonged to this earthly place,
I wished I could have seen him and learned the same melodies that he made,
The eyes that were true enough, and in sand with him I could play.
I see my father and now I know, how precious is that shelf,
The shelf that hid the memories, as that’s where the legend stays,
Every little thing he made, is still with us sound and safe,
Now I feel he’s still there, in every memory that my father shares.