Frozen beneath the ground lies the clock.
She ticks on quietly, keeping pace with the wind.
Her heart is a finely tunes engines made long ago.
On each hour she sings to the icy sky.
Her melody sounds against the ice,
trapped within a sleeping world.
On will she tick, till her gears rust,
on will she hum till her bells crack,
on will she dream till she floats away.
For the pond has need of a lullaby.