Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes pass,
Frozen breath in mirrored glass.
Mist, like dew, upon the rose does lie,
Embracing petals, blue as morning's sky.

We grasp the fleeting scent, so rare and fine,
But seconds slip, lost in time's grand design.
Traces remain, etched in history's rhyme,
A testament to moments lost in time.

Perhaps Time's voice should whisper low,
Lest silence claim the hours yet to flow.
For 525,600 minutes, like an ocean wide,
Remain unfilled, a paradox of time.

Makhosonke Dhlamini