In the attic’s dusty corner stands,
An ancient clock with wooden hands.
Its face, a map of years gone by,
Tells stories of a time that flies.

The pendulum swings with gentle grace,
A dance of time in the silent space.
Each tick a whisper from the past,
Echoes of moments that forever last.

Cobwebs drape its once proud form,
Yet in its heart, the hours are warm.
A keeper of secrets, a guardian wise,
Holding the dreams of olden skies.

Listen close to its rhythmic chime,
A melody woven through the fabric of time.
In the stillness, its song remains,
A timeless echo in memory’s lanes.