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Old Clock
The old clock has wound,
Days and months back,
Stopped at such a time,
When palaces were intact.
Where up and down we go,
On the hidden stairwells,
Making the corners a little ours,
Where stories of our folksongs dwell.
So, take me by my arm,
Swing me in the lush courtyards,
Run with me on rooftops,
Hoping the old clock never starts.
