Beneath the velvet dome of night,
the ancient tower keeps its place.
Its golden hands, aglow with light,
still turn with calm, unhurried grace.
It doesn’t speak, but tells the hours
in movements measured, bold, and blue.
It sings of sun and moon and powers
that pass above, forever true.
The Lion stands in stone repose,
its wings outstretched above the gate,
recalling peace the city chose,
and time’s long thread through love and state.
Through battles fought and markets loud,
through whispered prayers and sacred song,
the clock looks down, serene and proud,
its rhythm deep, its silence strong.
Its face endures while shadows flee,
resisting dusk with steady gleam.
It whispers to the likes of me:
“You too are part of time’s great dream."