The great clocktower stand dilapidated
Grinding, churning, clicking and creaking
As the thick black clouds cover the dim moon

The evening is silent
Save for the calls
Of distant treacherous birds

The bell tolls at midnight
Gently swaying the flames of candles
Within the upper rooms of the tower

As the bell slows
The candles go out one by one
As if a sentient breeze passed through

Until they were but wisps of smoke
Swirling beneath a fading moon
Never to be lit again