I am fond of those plump sheaves of wheat. They serve as a poignant metaphor for me, symbolizing the cherished relatives I’ve lost along life’s journey, the fleeting essence of youth, and the elusive dreams that perpetually elude my grasp. And what, indeed, is time? Is it the meandering current of history, the fleeting existence of all things, or a tempest swirling endlessly? This enigma, akin to fate, remains elusive to clear elucidation; akin to a wheel, it inexorably crushes our lives under its fractured and crumbling weight. Our lives, ever capricious and mercurial, lack rhyme or reason to follow, much like those solitary and vulnerable birds navigating the tumultuous…