Time moves in gentle, restless waves,
each moment a subtle turning,
etched in lines of hope and memory,
carved into the contours of the soul.
Life is not in grand gestures—
but in the steady, quiet acts,
the small resilience of morning’s light,
the grace in simply being present.
We carry within us silent histories,
the echoes of those who came before,
their unvoiced stories shaping us,
hidden in the deepening silence.
And in the pause between the breaths,
the fleeting, fragile truths—
the flicker of a thought, a fleeting smile—
life whispers its quiet song.
In the end, it’s in the subtle moments—
the soft, enduring pulse—
that life’s true poetry lies,
spoken in the language of the quiet mind.
