Beneath the ticking of the clock,
He worked in silence, steady, stock.
The world outside would race and spin,
But here, still time would now begin.
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With glasses perched and tools aligned,
He chased the seconds left behind.
Each gear he turned, each spring rewound,
A symphony of fleeting sound.
“How do you know?” I once inquired,
“What keeps you calm? Don’t you get tired?”
He smiled and said, “Each part must fit,
Patience builds more than haste or wit.”
The watchmaker’s hands, though old and worn,
Rebuilt what time had cracked and torn.
Each piece repaired, each moment caught,
A lesson carved from endless thought.
And now I see, through life’s demands,
The power held in patient hands.
To mend, to heal, to understand—
Time bends beneath the watchmaker’s hand.
