No statues stand, no songs remain,
No echoes call the speaker’s name.
The world moves on, it does not weep—
It buries deep, then falls asleep.
The hands that built, the hearts that gave,
Lie still beneath an unmarked grave.
No pages turned, no stories told—
Just dust where once there had been gold.
The laughter fades from empty halls,
No footstep lingers in those walls.
The scent, the smile, the voice, the grace—
All vanished with barely a trace.
Time does not pause to mourn or care,
It clears the path, it strips the air.
And all we were, and all we meant,
Is spent like coins we never lent.
The photos fade, the names grow faint,
Erased like tears on window paint.
Not even whispers know our song—
Just silence humming all day long.
We cry for more than breath and skin—
We ache to leave some mark within.
But time devours without remorse,
It keeps its cold, unbending course.
So let your soul in colors burn,
Make moments bold at every turn.
For in the end, we all must face
The cruel, slow art of time's erase.
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