Every tik-tak of the clock
and every syllable or rhyme
of a poetry sublime
catches us on to the dock..

of an illusion deep in slumber,
where sleep bring us the morrow
and past that we can tow,
in flocks we dream to gather.

hither to join His holy campaign
a crusade we shall call it,
to mock the spectral hordes that beat
our weaknesses inundates by bane.

hail to the time wherein we tread
in which all are habitants of flux and death.
How noble is the air we breathe
through time; adamantine thread.

Hail to the beasts, sky and sea.
Hail to the Master beyond.
He that puts us into the threshold of bond,
into a clock that bids us to see.

the hints and tastes which truly awaits us
beyond time, and through eternity,
where exist not the dingy
and exist not the thoughts of dust.

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