Answer:The Old Clockmaker The old clockmaker, with hands like gnarled wood,Sat hunched in his workshop, a solitary brood.His eyes, like the ticking of time, never ceased,As he worked on a clock, a masterpiece he'd leased. His tools, like his memories, were worn and well-used,Each one a story, a lifetime infused.The hammer, the chisel, the saw, and the file,Each held a whisper, a silent, old smile. He'd built clocks for years, a lifetime's devotion,Each one a heartbeat, a timeless emotion.From grandfather clocks, with their faces so grand,To pocket watches, held tight in a hand. But now, he was building something quite new,A clock that would tell time, in a way that was true.It wasn't about minutes, or hours, or days,But about moments, and memories, and ways. He'd crafted a dial, with stars etched in gold,Each one representing a story untold.And the hands, they were made of a silver so bright,To guide through the darkness, and bring forth the light. When the clock was complete, it stood tall and proud,A testament to time, a whisper so loud.The old clockmaker smiled, his heart filled with glee,For he'd built a clock, that would set time free. Now, every tick, every tock, of the clock's gentle chime,Would remind everyone, of the beauty of time.Of the moments we cherish, the memories we hold,And the stories that unfold, as time gets old.