It’s when tales become, Brain fog and despair, The stories remain, Memories untold.
When stories fade, Mist in the mind, Shadows that press, Memory thinned.
Still stories stay, Flowers in books, Held through the years, Kept in their nooks.
Coming before you, Voices are still warm, Guiding you through change, Like the calm of a storm.
Trust the spoken past, They mean well with words, Even in difference Of their opinions.
Countless stories shared, Passed through from blood lines, From generations, Past to the present.
Armed with strength in words, Then followed through with Guaranteed action On promises made.
Whispers talk at night Tell tales no one tells, But those are stories That must be passed on.
Words become the light, Lanterns at dusk lit, Steadying our hearts, Teaching just to trust.
When the years grow full, Lift all what remains— Name, echo and blood, Flowing through our veins.
Even the painful ones, It helps heal and grow Future generations Understand their past.
Bloodlines are just threads, Pulled from the years past, Bringing us closer, Than ever before.
Just as when there’s pain, Cold as winter’s air, Helps future young hearts Learn how to survive.
When time’s a burden, Carrying forward The family name Is all that is left.
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