Now down the clock’s face run
The hours and minutes one
After one and soon they gather
And rush to the end of this night
Not noticing the wild voices
Ringing in their fears
Of all things passing in the years
That have gone into silent flight.
Now looking back we weave
Thoughts of what might have been
In weeks and months past
Unreclaimed and out of sight.
Or, looking forward to what
We can’t see and hoping the unseen
Is better than what has been
We sing and shout, or even fight
To celebrate the passing of what
We can’t see or touch or feel
And in the dark and cold
Wait for some new hope past midnight.