Sadness flies away on the wings of time.

The wise poet Jean de La Fontaine once wrote, “Sadness flies away on the wings of time.” These words, delicate yet eternal, hold within them the quiet truth of human endurance. For sorrow, no matter how heavy, is not a stone fixed in the earth—it is a bird with weary wings, resting upon the soul for a season before it takes flight. Time, that patient healer and silent companion, carries it away little by little, softening the sharp edges of grief until only memory remains, tender and light as dust upon the heart.

In every age, men and women have cried out under the weight of despair, believing their pain eternal. Yet the ancient ones knew, as La Fontaine knew, that nothing endures—not joy, not sorrow, not even the might of empires. The river of time flows ceaselessly, and though it may seem still in moments of anguish, its waters never halt. Sadness, when left to this current, slowly dissolves. The heart, once broken, learns to beat again—not as it once did, but with new rhythm, shaped by loss yet still alive.

Consider the story of Helen Keller, who was struck blind and deaf as a child, shut away in a darkness deeper than night. In her early years, sorrow was her only companion. Yet with time, guided by patience and the gentle persistence of her teacher Anne Sullivan, she came to know the world again through touch and thought. Her sadness did not vanish in a single day—it flew away on the wings of time, borne off by courage, love, and the slow unfolding of purpose. Her life became proof that grief, though fierce in its first cry, must eventually yield to hope.

The ancients compared time to a great wind that smooths the roughest stone. To resist it is to suffer twice; to trust it is to find peace. When sorrow enters your house, welcome it as a guest, but do not let it become your master. Speak to it kindly, learn what it has come to teach, and then let it go. For the heart, like the earth after a storm, must be left open to sunlight if it is ever to bloom again.

There is also wisdom in knowing that time alone is not enough—it must be accompanied by a willing spirit. Those who cling to grief as identity, who water it daily with remembrance and regret, give wings of iron to their sadness, keeping it bound to them. But those who honor their pain and then release it, who turn their gaze forward instead of downward, find that time moves swifter, carrying sorrow away like a leaf upon the wind.

La Fontaine’s words are both comfort and command. They remind us that pain fades not by force, but through endurance. The heart must learn to wait—to sit in stillness while time does its work. The moon does not rush to become full; the winter does not hurry toward spring. So too must we trust the slow alchemy of healing. In this way, patience becomes a sacred art, and hope, its quiet song.

The lesson is simple yet profound: do not despair when sadness comes, for it is not eternal. Let time pass. Let life unfold. Walk, breathe, create, and love again, even if only in small ways. Each day will carry away a feather of your grief until, one dawn, you will wake to find your heart light again, and the bird of sorrow gone from your window.

So remember, children of tomorrow: when grief descends upon you, do not curse it, and do not hold it fast. Trust in the river, trust in the wind, trust in time. For all wounds, however deep, are shaped by the same truth La Fontaine gave us—sadness cannot remain forever; it takes flight upon the wings of time.