before the stars dared blink,
a woman carved from frost and silence,
her crown a halo of frozen flame.
Her name is Time.
She does not walk—she arrives.
She does not speak—she remembers.
And when she touches you,
you vanish slowly,
like mist in morning light.
She is beautiful beyond mercy:
cheekbones sharp as winter wind,
eyes like ancient glaciers,
lips that never smile,
but always know.
She cradles Earth like a dying ember,
watching continents wrinkle,
oceans forget their names,
and lovers turn to dust
in each other’s arms.
She is not cruel.
She is not kind.
She simply is.
The child, the king, the poet, the beast—
all kneel before her,
not in reverence,
but in inevitability.
She waits for no one.
She forgives nothing.
She catches all.
And yet—
in her icy gaze,
there is grace.
A terrible, radiant grace
that makes every moment
a miracle.
For it is her beauty
that makes us weep,
her silence
that makes us sing,
her certainty
that makes us live.
will take everything.
But first,
she lets us love it.
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