Grandad Played His Dad’s Piano Till His Last Breath

Grandad Played His Dad’s Piano Till His Last Breath

He knew the keys, his hands like bone,

a song from ages past, his own.

The ivory worn, the notes still pure,

a sound that time could not obscure.

Through wars, through loss, love and grief,

his fingers danced, a brief relief.

His father’s tune, not his to claim,

but in his hands, it stayed the same.

The room would fill with haunting grace,

a melody that time could chase.

Through endless nights, through sunner days,

his heart was bound to those old ways.

And when his hands could move no more,

when breath gave out, and eyes grew sore,

he played one last, familiar chord,

his father’s song, his final word.

Each note a thread that held him near,

his father’s ghost forever clear.

And as he played with fading breath,

he whispered love beyond his death.

The final sound, a soft refrain,

a legacy that would remain.

Grandad’s dead, now still and cold,

but in that music, his story was told.