Echo of a Time Unlived

In the weary wood, where time is mute,
An old clock no longer ticks.
The still hands, an ancient pact,
Reveal neither dawn nor the falling of blue.
A veil of dust covers its face,
Silent witness to a severed past.
But in that silence of gears grown cold,
It does not weep for the past already fled,
But yearns for minutes yet unborn,
The days its heart has never timed.
A strange nostalgia, a veiled lament,
For the stolen future, for every event.
Suspended is the dream of every new instant,
A longing for what will never be,
Of dawns unseen, of wandering faces,
Of a tomorrow that will never reach it.
The clock standing still, in its silent embrace,
Dreams of a future, in an empty space.