Need to birth the daughter of the clock
never can produce that silent peace—
that of sons who gloat their deathless stock
woven of a fabric without crease:
naught but warriors without a war
glaring into god’s blue eye with calm;
too, there are the aesthetes, still and fine,
careless under skies that always dawn,
wisps of fume about their timeless minds.
I have learned of waters far away
from the tumult of the em’rald sea,
deep and sound, within a finite fray,
lost, and always yearning to be freed.
In their heavy chains, their quelling pain,
drowned amid the grains of sand that fall,
daughters of the clock that always reigns
fight to taste the air outside their walls.