Atop the curve of a carved stone dome,
well gilded by rays of many setting suns,
Fortune pirouettes and prances all alone
while her clockwork wheels rhythmically run.

With each new tick of her timeless clock,
she spins the drivewheel another round
and dances ’round the clockwheels’ cogs
in freedom, from our cares unbound.

The spring in her step drives clock’s time,
a rhythmic dance with outstretched hands
that point to sorrows or high cloud nine
as suits her music: She won’t come to a stand.

Would that we could pass the years
like Fortune, a lady unwound by our fears.