Down the Lineage

In the garden's quiet shade, she sits,

My grandmother, with wisdom in her gaze,

Her words like gentle petals drifting down,

From her weathered chair, a throne of memories.

It's like a dance, this exchange of thoughts,

Her words a melody of grace,

Yet tinged with a hint of melancholy,

For the world she knew is fading fast.

Blame falls upon my mother's shoulders,

Or so the whispers say,

For she chose a different path,

One paved with dreams and softer hues.

My grandmother, a keeper of traditions,

A matriarch of strength and grace,

Her hands, once calloused from toil,

Now cradle stories of a bygone era.

She speaks of men with hands like iron,

Who tamed the land with sweat and blood,

Whose voices echoed in the hills,

But whose hearts remained untamed.

My mother, with her tender touch,

Her eyes a reflection of the sky,

She walks a different path,

One lit by stars instead of fire.

And I, caught between these worlds,

A blend of strength and gentleness,

I hold their words in fragile hands,

A bridge between past and present.

I look to my grandmother, seeking guidance,

But her eyes are distant, lost in memories,

I offer a smile, a silent tribute,

To the woman who shaped my world.

As I turn to leave, her voice calls out,

A whisper carried on the wind,

"Remember who you are, my child,

And let your heart be your guide"