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Versisognanti

The Last Hand

The last light trembles upon the dial,
the pendulum sighs, but beats no rhythm.
The mechanism, weary, refuses to sing the hour,
and the instant hangs suspended between shadows and waits.
The room holds its breath; no bell sounds out.
The night grazes the glass with a cold sigh.
Outside, a discreet moon watches silence being born,
and the clock decides to be silent, without apology.

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