In The Fold Of Time Poem by Mario, Lucien, Rene Odekerken

Time is a river, relentless and calm,
we drift in its currents, held in its palm.
It whispers in hours, it thunders in years,
carving our lives with invisible shears.

For all that we plant, time tends the soil,
turning our patience to blossem or toil.
An acorn sleeps in the shadowed earth,
unseen, unbothered by rush or mirth.

Seasons knead stone into soft, green clay,
silent, the mountains are whittled away.
Nothing is hurried, nothing is late
-
Time has its own unbreakable gait.

The stars above, in their infinite poise,
are ancient scholars, wise and choice.
They've watched as empires rose and fell,
silent witnesses, with stories to tell.

For time is a craftsman, slow and precise,
polishing roughness to beauty and ice.
With patient hand and steady pace,
it leaves its mark on every face.

And so we learn, as hours bend,
that time's true gift is not its end
-
but moments held in subtle grace,
the space it grants for roots to trace.

In time a wish becomes a vow,
a bud, a bloom, a broken bough.
Yet all returns to where it lay-
for time, our thief, will not delay.

So we are left to linger here,
with gentle faith, with quiet fear,
that in this brief, elusive trance,
time gifts us all a fleeting dance.