The trembling hands
Caressed by age
Had kept the seconds apart.
Exactly one second,
No one strayed,
For they dare not
Disobey the laws,
Written on brass gears,
Composed to perfection
By the trembling hands.
Tick-tock, they sang
None out of tune.
The seconds sped past
As minutes followed close,
And hours trudged through.
Each beating moment
Whizzed past in a trice.
The chimes conduct
The tone of time
And so the clocks sang.
The spring and the cogs
Danced to perfect symphony
Set to tone by the clockmaker.
But he left long ago,
Closed his shop,
Tightened the locks.
He ran out of time,
Set by his maker–
A flawed work of flawed hands,
Undone by rusted cogs.
© Abhijit Chatterjee