July skies

And summer: short, fleeting.
By winter the sun had turned its course.
And the days fly by: stubbornly, endlessly.
Its a pity we cant slow down their departure.

Like clouds they float in space,
leaving no traces in memory.
But this is the essence of consistency:
empty phrases of boring words.

And we live without understanding,
that something valuable is passing by.
And we all hope that it will be even better,
not this time, but some other time.