Spoken by Irene:

Alone at the window sits a lady of great age
The once white lace curtains are now a dirty grey
Her gnarled hand rests on the arm of a chair
Occasionally she moves it to touch her white hair
Close by a half empty platter of bread and cheese
Discarded and forgotten, for the old lady has small needs

She is all of ninety, with skin like crinkled paper
So patiently she sits, ready to meet her maker
Her tiny little body is covered with a shawl
Even in those far off days she was never very tall
There is a daily help who tends to all her needs
The old lady watches, her eyes like two brown beads

The house has a musty smell of damp and decay
Where cobwebs hang happily by night and by day
There's a painting of a young girl wearing a faded dress
Who could she be looking at, for her eyes hold a caress
The proud look of a fisherman as he stands by his craft
There are so many paintings reflecting the past

The old lady stirs, slowly she starts to rise
Groping for her cane that she keeps by her side
Painfully she hobbles to her antique desk
And takes a pile of photographs from a tiny chest
Each one full of memories, each one full of pain
Back through the time tunnel, she is young again

The house is deserted, but memories linger still
Of a sweet old lady, who sat by the window-sill