I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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I dream of what shall be should Time relent

Its awful pace toward the last event;

The cataclysmic point where we repent

Or waive the refuge of the sacrament.

If once his scythe would swing and miss its aim

And not another blue moon’s boundary maim,

I’d lay my clock face down to hide its shame;

No tick nor tock nor tolling to proclaim

A further moment wasted while we craft

Excuses for the deeds left understaffed.

It’s been too long a time since last we laughed,

But now the sounds of mirth have blocked the draught

Of cold lament, we take this treasured day

In four hands fast and carry it away

To form from this new era’s faultless clay

A shapeless void that Time cannot decay.