Everything passes.

We tend to observe most colors 
in only endings and beginnings
each day.

If we were to look more closely we'd see
  multitudes of shades and tones  
with each passing hour.

 Clear blues, waxy yellows, bright reds and murky grays. 
 Darkness. 

 But each color emerges and wanes.  Then passes. 

 It's clear that everything passes.

A historic street.

We can walk down an ancient street
Somewhere far from home

Discuss what it means to be you

What it means to be me

What it means to be us

What it means to live

And what it means to really love

And in thirty years we can return to this very street

A street with history

To look at our own history

And know that we meant all that we'd said.

Photo source: here