In the old tower, in dust and in gray, The Clockmaker hunts for the light of the day. He doesn’t fix gears, he doesn’t mend glass, He catches the moments that silently pass. In his deep pockets, he hides someone’s joy, Treating each second like a broken toy. Spin, heavy wheel! (Spin!) Strike, hammer, strike! (Strike!) Your life is stolen... A soul on a spike! He’s never aging, he’s drinking your years, While the whole city is drowning in fears! The master went mad, his mind is a cage, He turned himself into a gear on the page. Clicking and scratching inside of his chest, Steel hooks for eyes that will never find rest! He’s the machine, he’s the great iron cell, Ringing the seconds like a funeral bell! "Look, little boy, at the hand of the clock, Eating your life with a cold, steady knock... Tomorrow you wake — but the years have flown, Burnt in my workshop, forgotten, alone!"
