A par of shoes worn, rugged, plain, and old
Were given me one day by a wise man.
He didn't want them, didn't need them. Gold
They seemed to me, and there it all began.
The scratched black leather shows his years of toil;
Worn soles here testify to frugal life.
Now I with polish-brush face my new spoil;
With tools I face the imperfections rife.
With care I stitch the missing threads again,
Repair the soles, and fix with laces new.
Now new they stand, their age and life remain -
The past reflected in a livened view.
One thing remains - for this I pay my dues -
To walk a mile in my wise father's shoes.
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