From the eyes of a child, time stretches,
A weekend's wait feels an eternity.
Summers linger like endless stories,
Unwritten chapters of joy and fancy.
Growing, the world fast-forwards,
As if someone's pressed the cosmic play.
Children bloom in front of our eyes,
Their first steps, words, blink - they're away.
Like sand slipping through the fingers,
The years race past, unchained, untamed.
One moment they're small, in your arms,
The next, they're off, in the adult game.
In the mirror, time's quiet story unfolds,
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The etchings of life, of laughter, of tears.
A year now feels like a fleeting dream,
Decades recede in the rearview mirror.
Our bodies, once young and vibrant,
Now whisper of age, in aches and sighs.
Time, the relentless, silent sculptor,
Carves its tale under the closing skies.
As the twilight of life encroaches,
We question the all, the end, the next.
Is there a wheel that keeps on turning,
Or a silence, deep and complex?
In the heart of time, we find our dance,
Between the ticks and tocks, we sway.
And in this grand cosmic ballet,
We're but brief performers in the play.