By the hearth, deeply silent,his hands covered in calluses.Lost in thought, yet smiling,his white hair suits him well.
His eyes had cast their gazefar away toward the window.One hand he held over his heart,with the other he smoked his cigarette.
The wood in the hearth was catching fire,the smoke rising straight to the sky.And the old man twirled his mustache,I could not begin the conversation.
Full of longing, I looked in his eyes,and without a word, I conversed.His eyes were drawing a map,deep down there I read it all.
I walked away full of longing,“May your honor grow, and a long life.”The old man placed his hand on his heart,“Welcome in goodness, daughter, the door is open.”
I pressed my hand to my heart,I smiled at him, and embraced him.I ran my hand over his hair,in his eyes I read so much.
In the midst of silence I walked away,with a smile of pure sincerity.With my hand on my heart I bid farewellto the thinker of the highlands.
