The Father and the little girl

I held his hands old and trembling,
and mine, so little and fragile;
Together we climbed up the hill,
my father and me, the little girl.

Along the way we gaily laughed,
or tell stories of the wonders of life.
Birds circled just above us,
escorted so us not miss the path.

And now his hands I hold,
eyes with stories untold.
Of so much love to convey,
yet eyes cannot a word say.

And then my hands he hold,
the last that in my heart i held.