My hands pace out both pain and pleasure
Though my bones may tire from the relentless chase
I began with an echo of a gun sounded by man
The visage of a cruel mistress, my spirit is plunged
Into the corners of the cosmos,
       the cray, the quam, and the quivvy
You may use me to measure your own panics and pursuits
Though my own face is stoic, harsh-an honorable messenger
I do not mark the ******
But in their fatal perils
I am ripped from some wield-hinges
My arms still grasping to their convenience
And am cursed for my omnipresence
You granted me my meaning
Now grant me my name