The clock’s hands whisper secrets to the silence of the night,
Each tick a reminder of moments lost in flight.
Shadows stretch long as minutes fade away,
Time’s relentless march, night turning into day.

In the stillness of dawn, the clock’s face glows,
A steadfast guardian of days as they flow.
Each chime a testament to the hours gone by,
A melody of existence, under the vast sky.

The clock stands tall, a sentinel of time’s domain,
Marking life’s rhythm, through joy and pain.
Its hands dance gracefully, in an eternal ballet,
Capturing the essence of each fleeting day.

As the sun sets, casting golden hues on its face,
The clock continues its unending race.
With every beat, it tells a tale so grand,
Of life’s ephemeral nature, sculpted by time’s hand.