Clockmakers Lament

By Mansi Joon

In alleys where the lanterns flicker slow,

A clockmaker bends to the gears below.

Each cog a heartbeat, each spring a sigh,

Tracing the moments that quietly die.

He speaks to the hours with trembling hands,

Binding the sky with invisible strands.

Time is a river, relentless and wide,

Yet he bends it gently, lets it abide.

The clocks on the wall whisper his name,

A chorus of echoes, both tender and tame.

He dreams of a day when minutes will stay,

And shadows will dance where sunlight lays.

Tubes of brass, spirals and wheels,

Secrets of life the clockwork conceals.

He knows each second that slips and flies,

And captures its voice before it dies.

Through quiet nights, by candle’s flame,

He mends each hour, giving none the same.

The ticks become songs, the chimes a prayer,

Binding all moments with utmost care.

Yet still, in the night, he bends and he mends,

Till the first light of dawn through the window descends.

The city awakes to a rhythm so near,

Born of the hands of the man who holds fear.

And when the last bell rings in quiet refrain,

He smiles at the world, relieved of pain.

For though time escapes in relentless streams,

He has stitched it with love into fragile dreams.

By Mansi Joon