wake up

There is a river by the graveyard
and it runs so fast, so deep;
Weeper’s Bed, it’s called, on faces marred
for there the mourners go to sleep.
One man, they say, will venture there
and check for dripping faces;
many ask why he would dare
disturb the grieving graces
but I know, for he’s woken me,
his name fades on a stone—
we call him Clock, for time he frees,
and now we never sleep alone. 
There is a river by the graveyard
and it runs so fast, so deep;
Weeper’s Bed, it’s called, on faces marred
for there the mourners go to sleep.