A hand moves right, in circle round
but thoughts in time aloof.
My eyes see things, my ears the sound
but still I have no proof.

Why must I solve mysteries profound
or life why must I prove?
I walk amongst a sleepless town
and still I can't be soothed.

Is time a thing to be grasped by hand,
or a thing to be felt by soul?
And yet I live each day in works to be found
by the One, Ancient from of Old.