THIS clock has washed its hands of time:
at any moment it may chime,
sonorous, crazy, dignified,
with God knows what for goal or guide.
What is it measuring? No day
the righteous reckon in their way.
What does it measure, striking ten
only to strike it once again
five minutes later? Does it mark
an hour desolate and dark,
a moment for returning to
with weights and pendulum hung with rue?
Or does it celebrate a heaven
that could not last until eleven?
What are the private certainties
that prompt its stubborn silences,
or drive it to a frenzied peal
when slumber doth my spirit seal?
O you most whimsical of clocks,
why do you mock the orthodox,
the rigid ones, the well-advised,
their notes sedately synchronized?
Rebellious black sheep, genius, fool,
content to live by your own rule,
you twist the platitudes awry,
you shatter habit, so thal I.
hearing you speak who should be still,
take heart to turn against their will
who wear his amulet on their wrists,
forgetting that the god exists,
who bind him fast in hours and days,
a giant who does not amaze —
but you and I will set him free
and know him us eternity.