The Clock That Guides Life Poem by Rajendra Prasad Meena Jaipur India

A rounded square hangs upon the wall,
Twelve silent numbers watch them all.
Three slender hands meet at the core,
Then stretch toward numbers, evermore.

The longest moves, the shortest stays,
The thinnest runs through nights and days.
Round and round, they never tire,
Chasing moments that never expire.

At five, they whisper, 'Wake from sleep;
The morning has promises to keep.'
At seven, they urge, 'Let your work begin, '
As golden sunlight comes streaming in.

At nine, they murmur, 'Rest your head, '
While shadows gather beside the bed.
At twelve, the night wraps up the sky,
And dreams beneath closed eyelids lie.

The window brightens; the room turns gold,
Then evening shadows make it cold.
The walls stand still, the hands move on,
And one more day is quietly gone.

They guide our waking, work and rest,
But leave one question within our chest:
Have we used our hours wisely today,
Or watched our precious lives slip away?

The hands keep moving, the moments fly,
Like birds that vanish across the sky.
The clock tells us how fast days depart,
But life's true measure lies in the heart.