The Clockmaker’s Daughter

Beneath the moon’s soft, silver beam,

Lived a clockmaker, old and wise,

With gears and springs, and endless skies.

His hands were steady, his eyes were keen,

He crafted time in a world unseen.

But his greatest treasure, his heart’s delight,

Was his daughter, who danced in the pale moonlight.

Her name was Liora, a name so rare,

With raven-black curls and a rose in her hair.

She sang to the clocks, to the ticking and chime,

As if she could stop the march of time.

The villagers whispered, "She’s not of this earth,

A spirit, a phantom, of mystical birth."

For her laughter would echo through the midnight air,

And her eyes held secrets beyond compare.

The clockmaker’s shop was a wonder to see,

With clocks of all shapes, from land and sea.

Grandfather clocks with faces so stern,

Pocket watches that glowed like lanterns that burn.

But one clock stood out, a relic of old,

With hands of gold and a face of cold.

It never ticked, it never tocked,

Its gears were still, its key was locked.

Liora would gaze at the clock each night,

Her reflection caught in its glassy light.

She’d whisper, "Awaken, oh timeless one,

Tell me the secrets of the moon and sun."

But the clock remained silent, its secrets untold,

A mystery wrapped in a casing of gold.

One fateful eve, as the stars aligned,

A stranger arrived, with a presence divine.

His cloak was black, his eyes were green,

And he moved like a shadow, unseen, unseen.

He spoke to the clockmaker, his voice a low hum,

"I’ve come for the clock that does not succumb.

The one that stands still, yet holds the key,

To the past and the future, to destiny."

The clockmaker trembled, his face turned pale,

For he knew the stranger’s tale.

The clock was a curse, a gift from the past,

A relic of magic, too powerful to last.

He begged and he pleaded, "Take not my pride,

For it holds the soul of my daughter inside."

The stranger just smiled, his grin so sly,

"Then she shall come with me, by and by."

Liora stepped forward, her eyes ablaze,

"I’ll go with you, through the time’s maze.

But first, you must promise, one final boon,

To let me dance once more beneath the moon."

The stranger agreed, and she danced with grace,

Her feet barely touching the cobblestone space.

The clocks all chimed, a symphony of sound,

As if the universe itself were spellbound.

But as the dance ended, the stranger took hold,

Of Liora’s hand, so delicate, so cold.

He turned to the clock, and with a twist of the key,

The gears began turning, wild and free.

The clockmaker cried, "No, it cannot be!

You’ve taken my daughter, my Liora, from me!"

The clock’s face glowed with an eerie light,

And Liora vanished into the night.

The stranger was gone, without a trace,

Leaving the clockmaker in a desolate space.

The village grew quiet, the clocks all still,

Save for the one on the windowsill.

It ticked and it tocked, a mournful sound,

As if it wept for the love it had found.

Years passed by, and the clockmaker aged,

His hands grew weak, his heart encaged.

But every night, as the moon rose high,

He’d hear her laughter, a soft, sweet sigh.

And the clock would chime, a haunting tune,

For the clockmaker’s daughter, who danced with the moon.

So if you wander through that village someday,

And hear a clock chime in a peculiar way,

Remember the tale of Liora, so fair,

The clockmaker’s daughter, who dances in air.

For time is a mystery, both cruel and kind,

A tapestry woven, with threads intertwined.

And in every tick, in every tock,

Lies the heartbeat of love, in an old, enchanted clock.