The heritage, its roots do hold,
the history, its there, I’m told,

of ages gone, before us, stocked,
with our own generations, chocked

full of lineage and matter,
sometimes, through the ages, tattered.

wending ways, the books reveal,
the pages pour our faces real,

we see within those words co-mingled,
a vantage point, ancestor’s singled;

and farther back, upon some link,
we perchance to sit, pause and think

of how they came to be, you see,
within the branches of the tree,

that disappears into the mists,
before any thought of record list;

the ones who came before, we are,
embodiment of their genes, far

removed from what is now and here,
yet through the fog, yes, it is clear,

that although they are far removed,
each one contributed and moved

what is our own existence, now,
through their own time, we wonder how,

and when we have a moment soft;
to wend our own way throughout the loft,

of scattered dreams and lives so spent;
in past and wistful wonderment,

to pause a time, along the path,
that they had walked, I think they hath,

to make the record permanent,
for all to see, in glad content,

the family, as it did grow;
from then to now, for all to show;

these are our links, to times gone past;
and we, the products of that, last

to more and better live, yes now,
for looking back, then and how

to more appreciate what lives;
within us here, so we may give,

our own next generation, born,
a legacy of knowledge, sworn;

so as they wend their true way,
along the paths not seen today;

they can know, and hold forthwith,
that they are not just cast adrift

but have strong roots, grown underground,
but now esteemed and, yes, hard found.

The legacy they do inherit,
most proud to shoulder and to share it;

with their own generations, next;
to add more lines within our text. 

to send with family unknown,
upon a ground yet so unsown;

the knowledge that they came before,
did walk, and will again, our lore.