See how they gloat up there on the walls,

and smirk up on towers above us in town.

They the timepieces that fetter our lives,

and regale us with tales of the passage of time.

The worst of them all is worn on the wrist,

an imperious demon to whom we submit.

The slave-driver cracks his hand like a whip,

cutting short moments with the clock's every tick.

Filling the stolen seconds in which real life is lived,

with his ticks and his rings and his bells and his chimes,

as we burn spontaneity on the altar of 'plans',

and carve up the day into sections and times.

Like black asphalt paths cut into meadows,

that trammel the heart and limit the words.

He dances with glee and loudly he bellows,

the chant that drowns out the song of the birds.

Come now, stop this, have you seen the hour?

You've no time for the sunset,

you've other things planned.

Perhaps next week,

if there's time,

well, we'll see.

Perhaps then you can follow the tick of your heart,

And drown for a moment in an infinite sea.