In the silence of the afternoon light,
Dust dances in the golden beams,
Tiny particles in a delicate flight,
Forgotten remnants of ancient dreams.

They settle on the old bookshelf,
Among stories long unread and still,
Each speck a tale unto itself,
A whisper of time’s gentle will.

Through open windows they drift and weave,
Carried by breezes soft and kind,
Invisible traces we often leave,
Shadows of what we leave behind.

In the quiet, they find their grace,
A ballet in the afternoon glow,
Unseen by most, they softly trace,
The silent passage of time’s flow.