Rock back and forth,
The old chair creaks
As it sways the man to and fro.
Lines run from his fingertips all the way around his eyes
And to his brow.
Faded blues look straight ahead.
A firm fist held fast.
“The claim is false,
The claim is wrong,”
His gravelly voice
Like the pound of a gavel.
Many years he’s walked,
Many years he’s watched,
Many years he’s listened and fought.
Bound is he, to his ways;
Like a redwood he stubbornly stands.
Listen well, for what he has to tell,
Has come from experience as a man.

Pitter pat, pitter pat,
The footsteps sing as they grow louder from down the hall.
A small, bright, blue eyed babe
With dark brown curls and a smile
Bounces through the doorway,
So small.
When asked the same her answer rang “Tis true, the claim is right!”
Unclouded the mind,
Intelligent and young,
No prejudice nor bad blood taints her loving call.
Common sense and peace guide the workings of her brain,
Not having grown bitter over time,
And looking at things through an open mind.
Yet so easy to sway.
Blinded by light and almost incapable of seeing true darkness.

Age and prejudice, and youth and naivety
Both go hand in hand.
So who answered the question right,
The bright, unbiased, and open young lady
Or the wise, hardened, and experienced old man?