Whisper of Dawn

A broken clock blows minutes like dust,
the still hands tell stories without haste,
whispering numbers that no longer know how to count.
The dawn’s light answers with a thread of gold,
it lights the glass cracks and asks no explanations,
caressing the face and translating silences into promises.
They remain there, before the morning that does not insist,
stopped time admires a new beginning that judges not,
and together they pretend that every hour can still begin.