The clock may not mean much to rabbits and owlsnDepending on darkness and lightnTo fly in the night or to hide in a holenWe can do both fairly wellnnBut what is this ticking that saves us from sleepnFrom light and from warm peace of mind?nIt's tin and it's cold and is brutal in yearsnIt's emptiness and broken tearsnnWe'll lie under blossom, we'll dance in the fieldn'Til rocks start to fall from the skynWe'll swim in the river, and bathe in the seanAnd lay 'til our bodies are drynnThen what is this beating that saves me from sleep?nIt's wondering, waiting to trynThe whole world around me is solemn and oldnAnd loneliness answers my sigh