Time advances inexorably, like a silent thief stealing fragments of youth, leaving behind the weight of the years. The skin, once smooth and vibrant, begins to sag, like a precious fabric worn by wind and rain. The wrinkles, thin at first, creep in like furrows dug by a river in flood, tracing invisible maps of experiences, pains and smiles. Each line is a memory, a battle fought, a moment of happiness vanished into thin air.

The eyes, mirrors of the soul, become deeper, surrounded by shadows that seem to tell stories never told. The hands, once strong and confident, tremble slightly, while the veins become more evident, like roots emerging from the earth, witnesses of a life lived. The hair, once thick and bright, turns gray, as if the snow of winter had decided to settle on it, covering the color of spring.

Yet, in this apparent decline, there is a tragic and moving beauty. Every wrinkle, every fold, every sign is a test of resistance, of a journey through time that no one can avoid. It is the price to pay for having seen the world, for having loved, laughed, cried and dreamed. The passage of time is a slow and unstoppable fall towards the inevitable, but it is also a melancholic dance, an ode to the fragility and strength of human existence.