The river flows, a constant silent guide,
Where moments drift like leaves upon the stream,
And youthful dreams where once we took our pride,
Now fade to whispers in a waking dream.
The sun ascends, then sinks with steady stride,
And years, like shadows, quietly scream,
We grasp at moments fleeting, swift, and brief,
And find that time itself brings only grief.
©bfa040425
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