Something in clocks told me not to be late.

An ancient man hits the broken bell
while the city sleeps.

A scaring sound so hard to be explained,
the streets are overwhelm by the rain
that falls over the not written books
and strikes the dreamers heads.

Skies-given dreams appear at night
scared about these pure light signs.

Lightings strike and thunders blow up
the surreal crazy minds
made for opening their closed eyes

Sad writers crying because of stupid things,
shattered windows and people living free,
chained to their consumed and easy lifes.

An ancient man hit the bell at 3 o'clock,
made a song too beauty to be told,
dressed as an English rich Lord,
having dinner in his tower, alone.

It's too hard to stop the time chimes
when you're stuck in time.
It's too hard to be heared
when you don't know how a heart beats,
the brain thinks and the fingers write.

It's too hard to be heard if you
have never heard anyone else but you.