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I had to accept that my body
would not be immortal, that time,
like a tireless river, drags
and wrinkles are its song,
an echo of the whisper of the past.
In the dance of the sun and the moon
each dawn, the skin is told,
the stories marked by fire,
the laughter and tears, the fear.
The mirror, silent witness,
reflects a being that transforms,
that embraces life in its essence,
even if the passing of the hours hurts.
We are made of memories,
threads of dreams, and forgetfulness,
desires for the eternal,
but in the end, we are just rivers,
navigating between shadows and lights,
gliding between nostalgia
and hopes that nestle in the chest.