In the heart of the city's industrial sprawl,
Where gears hum and dreams turn to steel,
A clockmaker toiled under the dim pall,
His hands a dance, his thoughts a reel.

He dreamt of clocks that never broke,
Of gears that spun without a crooked beat,
A clock without a face, no hands to cloak,
A timepiece to the time it sought to meet.

"Build it," he whispered, "with heart and might,
A clock that beats to the rhythm of the night."
He dreamt of hands that held no grip,
A clock that told the tale of time's thick rip.

He dreamt of hours that stretched and bent,
Minutes that whispered, seconds that danced,
A clock that measured the heart's intent,
Not just the tick that time's pace pranced.

But the clockmaker's hands were weary, worn,
His mind a maze of dreams uncharted,
The city's rush, its relentless churn,
A force that left his spirit parted.

"Build it," he called to the night's soft hush,
"A clock that marks the quiet in the rush."
He dreamt of time that held no rush,
No need to chase the fleeting push.

In the heart of the city's industrial sprawl,
Where gears hum and dreams turn to steel,
A clockmaker toiled under the dim pall,
His hands a dance, his thoughts a reel.

-- RALLY
"Discipline is how we respect each other."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
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