Thursday, August 30, 2012


How quick the days,
Another bending of the hands,
Whirl the clocks of time,
Another cog grows weak.

Somewhere it ticks away,
The sands it measured few,
One moment wound to spring,
A second, and a stop.

Where was the ticking spent,
When evening fades away?
If I have to run the hours,
A few minutes to play.

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