The looking-glass gazes back at me,
Her soft, graceful curves swathed by my hand;
The cold metal strangely familiar.
She pulses the generations’ through my soul,
Their hands, so many centuries before mine,
Once grasping this handle.
She whispers their stories;
She gives me their life.
One day, a younger hand than mine
Shall hold her elegant handle
And hear the looking-glass’ stories.
Mine, too, shall be whispered,
And she shall hear.
And one day the looking glass will pass
To another, and another, and another still;
Gliding through the generations.
