Beneath the weight of time, where the shadows loom,
The “Golden Years”, a mirage, a grand deceit of gloom.
A ballad of this sorrow, sung by the withering trees,
Echoes of our losses carried on by the evening breeze.
In the tapestry of twilight, where all our hopes decay,
The fallacy unfolds, in shades of somber gray.
Old companions fade, like embers in the night,
Leaving behind an emptiness, an ever silent plight.
Colors of life are muted, as now the sun sets low,
A canvas of despair, where only shadows grow.
The path ahead it seems, is strewn with memories cast,
A journey through the echoes, of a swiftly fading past.
Our religion and society, the architects of this lie,
Weaving these illusions, as the years pass quickly by.
The “Golden Years”, it seems, is just a masquerade,
This charade of happiness, for many, is betrayed.
A requiem that is whispered, by the hands of time,
A tale of growing old and sick, a melancholic rhyme.
In the shadows dark where these truths intertwine,
A lament for the losses, and a dirge for the decline.
