The clock striking, I turn the hands back.
Hear voices I never heard before,
Words spoken from room to room.
Now and then, I hear the clock's extra tick
On the second hand. Hear the ring
of another clock in another room, another century.
Best not listen. Best not,
The burst of words from a distraught lover,
Bringing the pendulum to a stop.
Best replace the spring, rewind gently.
Even be late for the morning bus.
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