The Hands of Time

Time is a river that never looks back,
A whisper of stars on a sky-turning track.
It slips through fingers, silent and thin,
A thief in the night, yet a place to begin.

It heals all wounds—but leaves a scar,
A mark that shows us who we are.
We chase the future, mourn the past,
While now, the present, fades too fast.

A baby laughs—then learns to cry,
A mother smiles and waves goodbye.
The clocks may tick, the years may fly,
But truth remains: we live, we die.

Yet in between those first and last,
Are quiet moments flying fast—
A walk, a hug, a secret glance,
A song, a kiss, a second chance.

So let the hours freely roam,
But build your memories close to home.
For time won't wait, nor ask, nor pause—
It simply moves without a cause.

Make every second bold and bright,
A spark within the endless night.
For time is fleeting—but sublime,
A story shaped by hands of time.


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