When my brother grows young..

As the little tyke matures,

Steadily as my brother grows tall,

I fear if I could stand at all,

When his young blood,

Little angry and little tired,

When he would adhere himself,

With a chair and sit beside,

I’ll talk of our brave warrior tribe,

And I would speak of our warriors,

And those heroes on the chariots,

Those soldiers that fought till last,

That glory that’s now lost,

Indisputable, he’ll feel proud,

But I fear if he would,

Ask me to keep aside the gained pride,

And if he ignores the historic fame,

And if he asks me his father’s name..

My brother, my paternal uncle's only child lost his father at a tender age of six months. Words that I wrote here only dedicated to his thoughts.