Life, a philosophy that dares to deceive,
How can I declare this life as mine, so naive?
It holds no essence, no grounding or base,
How does it endure the weight of your trace?

Moments, fleeting, drift like the tide,
Though we seek to grasp them, they swiftly slide.
For them, existence ceases, the world takes its stage,
A realm of illusion, of time and age.

We question the reason for our birth, our place,
In a world so illusive, devoid of grace.
It promised us truth, yet wove a lie,
A mirage so vivid, yet destined to die.

Today we dwell in thoughts of regret,
“If only, if only,” a haunting duet.
The present, once ours, now fades to dust,
A future imagined, but lost in rust.

Fears once gripped us, of moments gone,
Thinking their loss would make us withdrawn.
Yet in their absence, a truth we find:
No soul perishes, though the heart may grind.

Even as breath ebbs, time lingers still,
Each pulse a measure of life’s vast will.
Decades pass, centuries unfurl,
Yet in the end, we’re just whispers in the swirl.

In the realm of “zamana,” once we stood tall,
Rulers of lands, empires to call.
But now, as time shifts, we fade from view,
Kings no longer, but echoes, few.