The Echo of Time

The clock hands move, so soft, so sly,

A whisper drifting through the sky.

The sun ascends, the moon retreats,

And time rolls on with steady beats.

It walks with kings, it humbles pawns,

It paints the dusk, it wakes the dawn.

It carves the rivers, shapes the stone,

Yet leaves us standing here—alone.

A child laughs, a mother sings,

A sparrow spreads its fleeting wings.

A candle flickers, burns, then dies,

Yet somewhere else, a new flame flies.

The seasons shift, the echoes call,

The summer fades to crimson fall.

The winter sleeps in sheets of white,

Till spring returns to kiss the night.

Oh time, you thief, you silver thread,

You weave the stories left unsaid.

You build, you break, you twist, you turn,

You light the stars, you let them burn.

And though we race, and though we run,

Chasing days already done,

In time’s embrace, we rise, we fall—

And in the end, we’re dust, that’s all.