The clock is but a death
with a white collar,
a death which enters
every nameless man's house
to gather his riches
and keep them close
to its wooden chest.

Death is but a snake
disguised in all the clocks
you've seen in your grandparents' house
in all the clocks you've held verdantly
like an infant
who only cries because of hunger;
the clocks which have lead you
towards all the stranded rendezvous
and those clocks who knew how to hide the hours
in the patch pocket of time,
when you were ill.

The clock is but a death
with two crosses
around its neck.

The alarm rings and soon
we'll leave our dreams
for an opaqueness
just as distant...

... made of wood