And that clock 

whose sound 

was 

the voice of our lives, 

the secret 

thread of our weeks, 

which released 

one by one, so many hours 

for honey and silence 

for so many births and jobs, 

that clock also 

fell 

and its delicate blue guts 

vibrated 

among the broken glass 

its wide heart 

unsprung. 

Pablo Neruda