The Clockmaker's Daughter

In the attic, dust and light,
She finds the clocks, hidden from sight.
Ticking softly, slow and true,
Each one a secret, old yet new.

Her father’s hands, so skilled and sure,
Had crafted time, both pure and obscure.
With gears that spun like endless dreams,
He wove through life’s uncertain seams.

The first clock’s chime, a ringing sound,
Echoes a love that once was found.
A memory of a summer’s kiss,
Of days that faded into bliss.

Another clock, its face so cracked,
Whispers of battles, courage lacked.
The ticking tells of wounds once healed,
Of broken hearts that never sealed.

A smaller piece, so delicate,
Marks the birth of hope, the dawn of fate.
Each tick, a step, a moment’s grace,
A journey taken, no time to waste.

The third, a clock of silver hue,
Holds silent tears, both old and new.
Of loss endured, of farewells said,
Of words unsaid, and hearts that bled.

She winds each clock with tender care,
Hearing voices in the air.
Her father’s hands, though far away,
Still echo in the clocks today.

Each one a story, quiet, deep,
A memory no time could keep.
For in the ticking, in the chime,
Lies the legacy of all of time.

The clockmaker’s daughter, eyes alight,
Understands the passing night.
For time is more than hours spent—
It’s the lives we live, the love we lent.

And though the clocks may one day cease,
The stories told will never peace.
For in her heart, each tick remains,
A legacy of joys and pains.

-Khushi Kaul