In the night, the only light was that of the hearth,
Grounding to earth like there was no time.
But there, on the wall, in emerald green
Stood a ticking, buzzing — restless clock;
Its arms grasping and its gearwheels in motion
To prove to itself that it was living a life.

To an empty room it spoke of life,
And the only thing alive to tell the story — was the hearth,
Which rippled in the center like a cocoon of motion
Standing the test of time.
What envy to witness that as an orating clock,
Who, in labour, tarnished itself from copper into green!

To that, "Vigour and envy both are green,
And suffering is a testament to life!
Work and prayer are the boulder for this old clock,
So that the only worry for the hearth
Could be to laugh at my aging face as a pastime."
The response was merely a dancing motion.

The door stayed shut without a budge or motion,
But hence came the smell of wintergreen
And reached the fire just in time
For it to spread it, faint and flickering, as a force of life.
It must've come from the herbs drying above the open-hearth;
They were hung, yet resting — a sore spot for the clock.

And if for death yearned the clock,
The sickening silence would cease all motion,
And no more stories would reach the hearth —
In the empty room, surrounded by all kinds of the evergreen:
Cypresses that guard the grave of an ended life,
And hollies blossoming at the brink of springtime.

But we must imagine that, all this time,
Throughout the night, in warmth and cold — the clock
Geared its course happily and rejoiced in life.
For who would speak of it, if in perpetual motion
They did not find zeal through their rusted emerald green?
Who would suffer, yet continue sitting by the hearth?

For there, on the wall, the hearth illuminated the clock
And no time had spared its clockwork in green,
Yet its motion still hummed 'tick-tock' in praise to life.




© shishmish