The Flowing Time Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Time flows—
like something lost in the air,
rising from some unseen world,
whispering,
then silent...
and gone—
into graveyard stillness.

Like a river,
endless, untamed,
never glancing back—
carving through stone,
forging new ways,
while the old paths
sink beneath layers
of soil, pebble, and dust,
rushing toward the sea.

A silent merging,
dissolving without trace—
as if it was never apart.
Did it rise only to return?
Or was it always one—
shifting form:
steam, rain, snow,
then river,
in this ceaseless turn?

And the sea—
is it ever still?
It too sways, restless,
like the sun.

And we—
sometimes by the river's edge,
sometimes in the sea's embrace—
stand as witnesses,
hearing its song,
feeling its hush.

Sometimes,
like children,
we try to halt the current—
with outstretched legs,
with walls of sand—
but it slips past,
unstoppable,
in its own rhythm,
toward the silent deep.

We call it separate,
but what river
is ever cut from the sea?
The river is the sea's breath,
the sea, the river's home.

And when we cry to time—
beg it to pause,
to turn—
it does not stop,
does not answer.
Only memories linger—
glistening in the gaze,
trembling on lashes,
drifting in the wind,
before fading into blue.

And we remain—
on the barren shore
time has abandoned,
haunted by questions:
Did we know the current's course?
Did we choose where it led?
Or did we simply drift—
like wingless birds,
tossed by the wind,
without purpose,
without flight?