By JH Sayyar
The hollow cheeks, where laughter did bloom,
Now wear the shadowed press of passing days,
Like sunless wells beneath the sky of gloom,
They mark the soul in time's unyielding ways.
No rosy flush remains to grace the skin,
But silent echoes carved by grief and care;
The beauty's depth now dwells not from within
The flesh, but from the spirit shining there
What tale they tell—of hunger, loss, or thought,
Of sleepless nights or love that went astray—
No sculptor's hand such weary truth has wrought
As life itself, that chisels youth away.
Yet in their hollowness a grace is found,
Where wisdom grows, vanity is drowned.