The wrinkles on her fingers
Echo like rings on a tree
Chopped down past it's prime.
It had lived in its time.
And the smile on her face
Speaks volumes from the past.
Libraries of wisdom
Whose memories can't last.
And the voice whispering softly
Seems to whither as it goes,
Humming solemn lullabies
Of bittersweet farewell.
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