Another Year

The clock is running, while standing still;
ticking off moments, tocking on memories,
the movement runs fast, although the spring is tired
and the pendulum swings with less vigour.
 
The chimes are mistimed, and lose count,
striking off friendships, striking on forgetfulness:
the bell sounds cracked, although the sound is loud
and the silence is broken with a clang of rage.

The hour is midnight, and will change,
sweeping out regrets, sweeping in reveries.
The days are few: although they too must pass
and while hourglass grains run still faster:
there is yet time enough, for love.