It takes time, whispers the wind,
the wounds of the soul carry no lament,
path of shadows, of tears and weeping,
weaving memories amidst old brokenness.
There are no shortcuts, the silence says so,
each weary step, a new descent,
like rivers that flow without haste or fear,
healing in their waters the love that remains.
Magic formulas don't exist, I know,
in the echo of time, the ‘I will be’ is heard,
each day is a verse written by destiny,
drawing in the air a divine future.
There are no calendars to mark the mourning,
the clock is not a friend, it's an old longing,
every hour a sigh, every minute a cry,
in the dance of the soul, pain resounds.
It does not heal in haste, nor on a whim,
life is a cycle, an eternal spell,
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From @asielda