For my grandfather

He flipped through blank pages
trying to find the perfect page to write
To write about a blank page
which was never destined to be written in
To write about a page
which belonged to a dried out mind

His poems were so often quoted
that they were not his anymore
His stories – so out of moral
They were forgotten for good

So, he slowly opened that blank page
To end the fear of writing again
with a quivering hand and a resolute mind
which foresaw a forgotten thought
and an illegible writing

But instead ended up
flipping through blank pages
trying to find the perfect page to write
To write about a page
which belonged to a dried out mind