It is the drone, the endless moan of time.
The tick, the tock, the ticking clock sublime,
it starts, it ends, it starts again, the clock
that never dies. The clock, tick-tock, it talks
it talks to me of many things, of things
that used to be, but, time, it soars on wings
of gold and silver, shimmers by the sea
it flies, it dives, it slows to stop and see.
Once great and tall it stood beyond the shore,
the tree of life, the fruit it bore, no more.
Once new, now felled, it lies there on the grass,
its trunk, a husk, its roots lost in the past.
Time sighs and soars, it flies into the sky
for now time knows that even time must die.