Time slips through curious fingers, woven into threads of fate.
The sentinel of moments, the eternal clock,
swings gently, solemnly.

Echoes of dialectics, in forgotten chambers,
where echoes argue—debating causality and consequence,
in voices lost to whispers of ancient winds.

Once a conduit for dreams,
now a dialect by which the ghosts
of old realms converse in veiled poetics.

The hands of the clock sing:
An ode to nothingness,
for what was and is now silence,
sculpted into a monument of timeless alchemy.