The Hands of Time

I climbed the attic stairs that day,

Through dust and wooden beams of gray.

Found a chest beneath the eaves,

Wrapped in cloth and autumn leaves.

Inside it lay an old brass face,

A soldier's watch in a velvet case.

When I wound it just for fun,

The hands reversed, the years undone.

In the hands of time, the world turns slow,

Back through places I'll never go.

Every tick a memory, every tock a prayer,

And suddenly my father's there.

Through the fog and the cannon flame,

I heard them calling out his name.

Mud-stained boots and a trembling ground,

Freedom fought where hearts were found.

He wrote her letters, folded tight,

Under stars of a foreign night.

The watch kept beating through the fear—

And I could almost feel him near.

In the hands of time, I saw them dance,

Before the ring, before the chance.

Sharing sodas at the five-and-dime,

Laughing under neon signs.

Then blue lights flashed and sirens wailed,

Justice stood where evil failed.

My father's arms were strong and true,

He fought for peace, as heroes do.

The ticking stopped—he's gone, they say,

But I can hear him anyway.

In every dawn, in every chime,

His heart still beats in the hands of time.

"In the hands of time…

I still find you."