Silent Clock

A clock ticks softly in the hall,

Yet its whispers are heard by none at all.

The hands move forward, slow and sure,

Marking time while wounds endure.

A mother weeps where shadows fall,

Her cry a thread, so thin, so small.

The world looks on with vacant eyes,

Too blind to see, too deaf for cries.

The silent crowd—a faceless sea—

Drowns justice in its apathy.

Each gaze averted, heart of stone,

Leaves the broken more alone.

Vines of indifference creep and grow

Choking voices, reaping woe.

It feeds on silence, breathes despair,

And mocks the ones who dare to care.

But listen close: the clock still ticks,

Its rhythm frail, its beat inflicts.

A choice remains in every chime—

Will we heal, or waste our time?

So take the hand of those unseen,

And cut the vines where hate has been.

For silence kills where love could start;

Speak now. Save lives. Relive the heart.