Perched like a hat Napoleon might wear,
You limply cut to shreds each measured day.
Each threatened tick weighs no more than hot air.
Thin-veneered, you march on, always hungry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Clocks, Crows, the moon: all great fodder for poets...and your clock is an original. Thanks for sharing.