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Silence cannot own this room,

if a clock beats, keeps, and loses time,

if you tick-tock clues to the empty moon

and gather pearls strung for rhyme, 


for a clock that beats, keeps, and loses time.

And hemming light, like beads of noiseless white,

you gather pearls strung for rhyme

as moon-cut gifts to the saddened night.


And hemming light, like beads of noiseless white,

the room grows bright with faces telling tales—

moon-cut ghosts that raise the saddened night,

that pass before you in their morning veils.

 

This room grows bright with faces telling tales,

as they tick-tock clues from the empty moon.

Who passed before me in their mourning veil?

Silence cannot own this room.

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