The bookshelves of memories

I was five a little girl, hardly could I reach there; where the memories hid themselves,
Eyes   whispered something to my mind, what is so special about the shelve?
A dusty red book, a thread of black to bind it's old black page,
Everyday, day after day, I looked at it in awe and to get a gimps of it someday.

I asked my father to what was there, that he held so safe,
Tell me what that old book of red; are there stories to be shared?
He looked at me and said so soft, in there are the memories of a man.
Man! Who is the one you talk about, father let me know?
Then each day he shared his stories.

Stories of his love and care, his great work and compassion,
His masterpieces, he left behind and the glorious life he led,
The carving on the lifeless wood, with sand and mud he played,
The work of his hand brought life to everything that he made.

The red book of memories was shown to me one day,
The pages were soft and the memories were safe in there,
Eyes he had of some sparkling jewel,
Hands that molded clay, painted stories with his brush.

Melodies he made with this violin, plants and even trees danced,
To the music that he played, It's not me who just say,
I heard it once form his beloved student, when he once came to his grave.
I ask my father, is this true? He said, just believe to what he says.

There I knew my Grand dad, was truly a man of strong faith,
He did had something divine in him and he didn't belonged to this earthly place,
I wished I could have seen him and learnt the same melodies that he made,
The eyes that were true enough, and in sand with him I could play.

I see my father and now I know, how precious is that  shelve,
The shelve that hid the memories, as that's where the legend stays,
Every little thing he made, is still with us sound and safe,
Now I feel he's still there, in every memories that my father shares.