Dusty old leather volume, 
Your engraved beauty on faded cover so 
Sturdy. Crafted for the ages.
Your pages full with tales told in glory.
They recede on weathered paper as 
your own aged eyes strain against 
forgotten tintype.
Hands grasp, longing to peruse,
Cradling you homeward in my arms, so
Ready. Willing you ‘live again’.
Your children bend eager hearts to hear.
We tend your leaves and stitches as
our own hopeful eyes strain to preserve 
everything within you. 
Fragility seals against all inquiry,
consigning to unreachable places,
leaving history to mere storytellers,
as we mourn.

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