As morning light declares the sun’s slow climb —
how now, my dear, will we mark the time?
An hour in your arms alone can be
an eternity that passes, too quickly…

No watch, however cleverly composed, can show
the weight I feel as I watch you go;
nor hourglass, with sinking sands insist
that I depart, or you resist…

Don’t circle me with clocks! their lulling lies —
and I will read my future in your eyes;
don’t speak of evening, or of afternoon;
these pained promises never come too soon…

Just stay with me, and claim our meeting’s powers
to overthrow the tyranny of hours.

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