In the cradle of dawn,
where shadows linger,
the world stirs like a restless child,
clinging to the edge of dreams,
fingers brushed with the dust of yesterday.

Each day a canvas,
painted with strokes of struggle,
threads of hope tangled in despair,
the sun rises not to warm,
but to illuminate the cracks in our armor.

Feet worn from the path,
they shuffle through the noise,
each step a whisper of stories untold,
echoes of laughter and tears,
the symphony of...