When the clock strikes,
It marks time.
How many nights,
Have I heard its chime?
That sorrowful bell,
The slight swell,
A dampened ring,
A single note to sing.
Its hypnotic tune,
A longing croon.
Its cry of lament,
The moans of repent.
Every hour of the night,
Every hour of the day.
Without hesitation,
Without dedication.
It's life marked by itself.
Every ring is a tale it sings.
And it sings till its end.
Yet, who knows whether its silence is eternal or momentary other than itself?
The meaning of itself is decided by itself.
Perhaps that would be true for people as well.
