The Ephemeral March
In the quiet, relentless march of time, we find the essence of our existence — a delicate balance between the enduring and the ephemeral. This prose poem reflects on the gradual, yet inevitable fading of moments and memories, a poignant reminder of life’s transient nature.
Time, like a silent river, flows slowly, imperceptibly, yet with unyielding certainty. It carries within its current all that we are, all that we know, weaving through the landscape of our lives with a soft, almost tender touch. But in this gentle passage, there lies a profound truth, one that whispers in the rustling leaves, in the quiet of the dawn, in the stillness of a midnight sky — everything we hold dear, every memory etched into the fabric of our being, every laughter shared under the sun, and every tear shed in the solitude of the night, will, in time, slowly fade away.
As the hours stretch into days, and days meld into years, we come to see the delicate dance of shadows and light that is our life. The faces of loved ones, the warmth of a summer day, the sting of a bitter farewell, each a vivid brushstroke in the masterpiece of our existence, gradually blur into the background, softened by the relentless march of time. In this slow, almost imperceptible fading, we find the bittersweet melody of life — a reminder to cherish each moment, to hold close each memory, for in the end, time, the silent sculptor of our days, shapes our world in ways we can scarcely comprehend, leaving us with nothing but the faint echoes of what once was, in the vast, timeless tapestry of existence.
