In the quiet whispers of the morning,
We find fragments of dreams, unspoken,
Life unfolds in delicate patterns,
Each moment a prose, a story woven.

Through the corridors of fleeting hours,
We wander, seeking meaning in the mundane,
The tapestry of existence, intricate and vast,
A dance of shadows and light, joy and pain.

The echoes of laughter, the silent tears,
Etched in the fabric of our days,
Each heartbeat a testament to our journey,
Each breath a line in our endless play.

As the sun sets and the stars emerge,
We ponder the prose of our being,
Life, a collection of ephemeral verses,
Written in the ink of our living.