Your grandfather's war

Dust danced in sunlight, a quiet decay,

in my grandmother’s attic, where memories lay.

A tin box whispered, secrets in hold,

a young man’s smile, framed in stories untold.

In uniform, he stood, a hero in light,

but shadows in his eyes spoke of endless night.

Letters of longing, ink smudged with tears,

tales of his battles, echoing fears.

What ghosts did he carry, what burdens of time?

A lifetime of stories, some sorrowful, some sublime.

Yet in this box, a warmth still glows,

his legacy lingers, in whispers it flows.