It ticks by,
The clock hanging on the wall;
Striking past two in the morning,
Letting the fatigue wash over me like waves,
And over the shore I'm left dying. 

It ticks by, 
The watch on my wrist,
Painting the world gray,
Splaying the world above me with a black canvas, 
And over the mountain I'm left alone crying. 

It flies past—
The hourglass on the windowsill, 
Blowing the nature with its breath, 
Slicing my skin like daggers—
But even so, I'm still here, 
Right here, left alone surviving. 

— Jane A.Rahman