The Slow Days, The Lost Years

Ranbir Laishram

Each day moves slowly—
waiting in lines,
counting what is missing,
missing what was ours.

Beyond the hills lie fields we cannot cross.
The river runs through memory,
its waters once lit with laughter,
now only a shimmer we recall.

Mornings stretch wide
with chores and small talk,
unopened letters,
moments drifting into silence.

Days and months slip softly by—
the young ones grow, hope thins,
dreams reshape behind thin walls,
and years rush pass unnoticed.

Yet in our weary eyes,
a quiet spark endures—
to build again, to reclaim again,
to see our children walk unharmed.

We hold each other close;
the days seem endless,
but when we turn and look back,
the years have already gone.

Still, in gentle pauses,
we find what stays—
a shared breath, a fading laugh,
a memory that refuses to leave.

And, we wait,
believing the wind will one day
carry us home.