We Pass Through It
We Pass Through It
Time does not pass — it stands, unmoved, like a wall of amber and stone,
we are the ones who slip through it like smoke through embers alone,
it watches empires mistake themselves for eternities of granite and pride,
and lovers who confuse a single moment with forever inside.
No war has ever conquered it, yet every victor in the end,
became its own, like dust beneath a foot that will not bend,
it has never spoken a single word, silent as the floor of the abyss,
yet every graveyard is filled with its unwritten arguments like this.
It does not steal from us — no, it never steals a thing —
it simply waits until we understand we never owned anything,
our faces borrow youth from the cold hollow of its palm,
and our memories borrow meaning from what won't erase or calm.
Our lives are debts drawn from its silent, boundless sea,
existence — a loan that no one has ever repaid or set free,
I have never seen anything more powerful, more dense, more severe,
not because it destroys everything, but because everything answers to it, year by year.
Perhaps its true power is not that it reshapes every face and form,
but that it reveals what was never meant to last beyond the storm,
and exposes what remains when everything else has faded and gone dim —
Time — the only witness that has never lied and never been overcome by him.
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