Three Hands Poem by Prof Niamat Ali Murtazai

Tick, tick, tick the watch makes a run
Look, look, look move stars, moon and sun.

The frisky child moves with second
The dial seems to be a play ground.
In pleasure's wind it makes quick bound
And leaps ahead like a fast hound.

The minute youth moves with proud stance
And seems to have lost in romance,
Searching for something in thought lost
Far and wide looking in time's frost.

The hour's old age lacks power in knees
Ready to sit under green trees'
Tired of running on life's crease
And is shaken with morning breeze.

The dial seems to be world-wide map
Meeting somewhere, somewhere vast gap.
All hands are to play in time-lap
The earth is to wear blue cap.