Another day goes by yet another one,
then another one and another one.
Itβs a transference of life,
as oneβs born, one dies,
another comes, then anotherβs gone.
If so itβs its finite nature, thatβs the beauty of time, how one holds wonderful dreams for such ordinary lives.
Despite the best laid plans of mice and men,
we are all just another one, before some other one.