In a small corner, where the shadows creep,
There kneels an old repair man at his trade.
With careful hands and patience he will keep
The past from fading into dark cascade.
He looks upon the scars and fading lace,
Each worn-out relic of memories past.
With loving touch he brings back warmth and grace,
Mending what time and weather have amassed.
No task too small, no detail left undone,
He breathes new life into the things we hold.
With gentle care, like sunlight's gentle spun,
He makes the past feel new again, so bold.
And as he works, the stories he will share,
Of history, of love, of laughter's gleam.
His voice, a soothing balm, will cast its snare,
Weaving tales of times gone by, like silken dream.
Thus, in the quiet of his hidden nook,
The old repair man mends not just the cloth.
He weaves the tapestry of lives' unique book,
Restoring joy to those who knew them both.
So let us honor this artisan of time,
Whose skill preserves what others would discard.
For in his craft, we find a glimmer, a chime,
That brings the past to life, with heart and bard.