The Illusion of How Beauty is not the True Meaning of Aging | Hend Egzait (11)

In the passage of time, I've learned to see

The quiet grace in how we come to be.

Itś you and me, our parents, our friends,

Each chapter unfolds with love that never ends.

With every year, they bloom and fade,

Their wisdom shining through timeś shade. Lines on their faces- stories untold, 

Each wrinkle is a memory, each mark pure gold.

Their eyes, once bright now softly gleam, 

Holding echoes of laughter,

Fragments of dreams. 

Silver threads crown their hair with light,

A map of the years, both day and night.

They've weathered storms, they've faced their fears, 

Their strength is unbroken after all these years.

Their laughter once young now sings with grace, 

A timeless melody the heart has to trace. 

Their voices gentler, yet warm with love,

 Guiding like stars in the skies above. 

Their presence is a beacon, steady and kind 

A comfort, a peace, to their restless minds.

And as we watch them age, we start to see

The gift in every memory. For time is slipping, 

It slips like sand,

Yet the moments we hold forever will stand. 

So let us cherish, while we can, 

The stories written by our lifeś' hand.

In growing old, we find lifeś true meaning of art 

The beauty of time, the truth comes from the heart.