The wispy cobwebs glitter momentarily in the sunlight, before slipping into oblivion. The breeze that brought in news of warm days and clear skies dies away, only to be reborn as the storm that claims many a life, wrecking havoc, shattering dreams and splitting shadows that stood together, into masses of meat, clothes, thoughts and words. Wars that united nations and pacified rebels and insomniacs pass by the house of the Widow; her ear-splitting cries going unheeded. But the clock chimes on, regardless.
The gold-encrusted pendulum swings on, taking in the sights and sounds of a dying humanity – but never stopping to check itself or pull back a few seconds, saving the little girl the loss of her doll, or the Mother, the loss of a soul. Each second is born anew, pure and unadulterated, unaffected by the ones that have passed or the ones to come. Each moment is unlike another the world has ever seen, springing fresh air from the lungs of infants and urging the frail old man to let out his last. The scarred glass face watches as its hands move around, waiting for the children to grow, and the garden roses to wither. The clock is witness to everything that man sees, smells and hears in the world and smiles in its own mystic way, listening to men talk on love and nature and the glorified past, knowing fully well that the beauty of the things that surround, shall enchant him only so long as he wishes to be enchanted; that the clear pool that he eulogized today would be cursed tomorrow, for swallowing his son and taking with it, a part of his life too. The time-keeper gathers dust as it sits by the cupboard, unnoticed, uncared for. Its still firm hands sweep across its inscrutable face, removing the scars of the past and bringing forth the joys of the future.
But the clock has its time too, and meets its end with dignity. The windings that moved the gears of happiness and the chains of sorrow resign; their role taken over by fresh faces that push the seconds through just as well, pulling the strings that control man’s actions, thoughts and feelings.
Sometimes one wonders why man puts himself through the trauma of watching the clock, willing the minutes to melt past; awaiting his own end. Man has tried for long to make Time yield to him, but the truth remains that he shall but be a mere puppet of his fate dictated by the moving hands. But Time, wise as she is, smiles again, reaffirming that man’s being is fuelled by her own; her ulterior motives faded in her own passing, pulling mankind along warped space, towards the Judgment they face together, with none but each standing as proof of the other’s existence.
Maybe in the end, only Time will tell.
The gold-encrusted pendulum swings on, taking in the sights and sounds of a dying humanity – but never stopping to check itself or pull back a few seconds, saving the little girl the loss of her doll, or the Mother, the loss of a soul. Each second is born anew, pure and unadulterated, unaffected by the ones that have passed or the ones to come. Each moment is unlike another the world has ever seen, springing fresh air from the lungs of infants and urging the frail old man to let out his last. The scarred glass face watches as its hands move around, waiting for the children to grow, and the garden roses to wither. The clock is witness to everything that man sees, smells and hears in the world and smiles in its own mystic way, listening to men talk on love and nature and the glorified past, knowing fully well that the beauty of the things that surround, shall enchant him only so long as he wishes to be enchanted; that the clear pool that he eulogized today would be cursed tomorrow, for swallowing his son and taking with it, a part of his life too. The time-keeper gathers dust as it sits by the cupboard, unnoticed, uncared for. Its still firm hands sweep across its inscrutable face, removing the scars of the past and bringing forth the joys of the future.
But the clock has its time too, and meets its end with dignity. The windings that moved the gears of happiness and the chains of sorrow resign; their role taken over by fresh faces that push the seconds through just as well, pulling the strings that control man’s actions, thoughts and feelings.
Sometimes one wonders why man puts himself through the trauma of watching the clock, willing the minutes to melt past; awaiting his own end. Man has tried for long to make Time yield to him, but the truth remains that he shall but be a mere puppet of his fate dictated by the moving hands. But Time, wise as she is, smiles again, reaffirming that man’s being is fuelled by her own; her ulterior motives faded in her own passing, pulling mankind along warped space, towards the Judgment they face together, with none but each standing as proof of the other’s existence.
Maybe in the end, only Time will tell.
