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Strange is our time, my dear
the years pass by the door of our home,
so fast that I don't even manage to greet them,
nor to tell them that in their eyes I saw poetry.
They are soft whispers that slip through the breeze,
voices from the past that dance in our chest,
when time stands still, when love moves forward,
and in each instant, the heart becomes eternal.
The leaves fall, and with them the memory,
of shared laughter, of intertwined dreams,
in the warmth of an embrace, in their sacred gestures,
and the clock on the wall sometimes looks like a dog.
Although time is strange and plays with destiny,
it peeps through the window with its silver cloak,
the sun sets and is reborn, love is sacred,
and I, between shadows and lights, look for your path.