She is the cradle, out of which we all climb to enter life. She is the river we submerge ourselves in to wash away all of our sorrows. She is there, always, embracing us.
But as the days go by the observant mind begins to see that when we climbed out of the cradle we made a pact. A promise that one day we will return – only to find the cradle is a grave. And all our ventures, all our creations, all our glory, we leave behind.
Time is the murderer of all hope.