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His tiny gears align with night
He times the pulse of stellar light;
Through maple frame the cosmos gleams
A ticking map of human dreams
He counts not wealth but spark and phase
How faith survives in numbered days;
Each second winds a silver thread
That ties tomorrow to the dead
He knows the stars may never stay
Yet measures hope in quiet way;
For keeping time is not control—
It’s conversation with the soul
When dawn dissolves the astral sphere
He closes watch and wipes a tear;
A maple beam receives his nod—
To mend the finite under God
