His shop is hollow, barren of light,
The clockmaker lost in the void in his head.
He wonders if he had chosen a different route,
A life not dictated by other’s demands.
A dream of being in the king’s royal army,
Marching in battles, fighting with might,
Feasting with fellow soldiers while laughing heartily
And retiring to live a plump old life.
Instead he spent most of his own life
Mending clocks of all sort
Never earning enough, always falling short,
Stuck in a life he never sought,
Wishing he had dared to follow the different route.
In the quiet hours of soltitude
When the last customer walks away
He gets lost in his thoughts yet again
While the clocks on his walls tick away.