The Voice of Time (Profiles #5)

By Andrew R. Duckworth

His hands were rough,
His skin dripping from his arms,
His eyes planted in wrinkles,
His cheeks drooping.
His hair, what little was left,
Was white with wisdom.
Days of turning the wrench,
Days of tilling the earth,
Days of stepping for miles,
All of it was behind him.
Now were the days of rest,
The days he could give
His grandchildren the best,
He could tell the stories of youth
To impart life’s lessons
To pass on the voice of time.

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