In my room, the grandfather clock has been busy
Busy moving its needles around for over a century
Seconds, turning to minutes, to hours, days and years
A young clock growing old, pendulous pinions and gears.

That’s what passing time does, a chime unfixed
But truly, as I introspect, does time really exist?
Rising sun and the onset of night, an unending event
Churning of moments, past, future and the present.

Creeping on us, time is the rhythmic rhyme of history
A song sung by my clock, and its ubiquitous mystery.
A silent, unspoken, unheard, stealthy crescendo
The ever changing panorama I see outside my window.

But then what is the datum to know elapse of time?
Is it a mere yardstick of your evolution and mine?
Replacement of dying cells, a genetic work so complex
My grandfather clock, tick tocks unmindful, unchecked*.