Dust and Sunbeams: Holding onto What Made Us Home

I saw the firewoods go out
The plates clinging and clapping for freedom
The pots screaming for cold
All in Grandma's house

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Grandma is now frail and old
The mortar no longer suffer from her fragile hands
The pots sits lukewarmly on the rack
How time cease the memories once shared

Now, dust sunbeams traces where pictures hung
And silence settles where voices were once heard
Though empty now, and time had fade the then tradition
I still hold the warm of what came here before.