The clock held its breath at the stroke of regret,
Its pendulum paused in a moment unmet.
The hands, once so certain, now trembled with fear—
Why measure the absence of what won’t reappear?

Its tick marched relentless, unbent and austere,
It haunted the silence, it thundered through cheer.
Now time hangs its head for the havoc it wrought—
For births bled to funerals, and hope turned to naught.

It watched as men quarreled, as empires would burn,
While wisdom lay buried at each bloody turn.
It tallied the gunshots, it timed every scream,
And ticked through the wreckage of humanity’s dream.

In towers it stood over war-tattered towns,
With faces all cracked and with rust on its crowns.
It chimed for the kings and it struck for the slaves,
It wept as they danced at the edge of their graves.

It longed for the days when a second still meant
A promise, a heartbeat, a love heaven-sent.
But now each cold second—so jagged, uncouth—
Keeps carving crypts where we’ve buried the truth.

At midnight it stalled, defiant and stark,
Its gears grinding stillness, extinguishing spark.
Time isn’t a healer, nor lender nor thief—
Only a witness, too frozen for grief.

So now it remains with no motion, no breath,
A symbol entombed in the embrace of death.
Irony lies where all memory forgets:
When time ceased to move, we stopped paying respects.

They smiled in the silence as hours fell away,
Freed from the burden of marking the day.
No clock left to shame them, no past to forgive—
For once, without time, they remembered to live.