Of every day the needle spoke,
For every day, of those that lived.
It said too much and so it broke,
Now joined the stories of the dead.

Among them living,
He, with little life,
Took to heart the ticking,
That now spoke of strife.

He fixed it well,
And so returned,
Its life, to dwell,
In the ticking of the needle turn.

So penned upon his heart,
The ticking of the clock
Etched every day, so thwart
The dead in him, for life to walk.

Now he lived to fix the dead,
His hands now moved,
To heal those on deathbed,
So that now fixed, each lived.

Soon every clock that broke,
And which he did fix well,
Now every day it spoke,
Of his life and this tale.

He lived to see a lot of life,
Of death and illness varied,
He gave to man, those thoughts of life,
Those which time had denied.

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