Clock
Thirty silent clocks;
estate of an elderly man
who hoarded time in his bungalow
until each piece was spent
and he became time bankrupt.
I choose one for its looks,
wind it up like an old fashioned toy,
smile at its resuscitated tick-tock.
But on my mantle piece
it clamours above TV and chat,
raising its voice when I leave the room
forcing me to heed each second's death,
then every five hours, stops.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem