Write a poem about time.

Deepseek, prompted by Bruce, wrote a poem about time.
In ten seconds.

Here it is.

The Unblinking Clock

It does not march with boots of lead,
Nor rush with river’s urgent might;
It is the space between words said,
The slow unfurling of the light.

It is the patient, unseen hand
That curls the sapling to the oak,
The quiet and unclaimed demand
That measures every breath you spoke.

It is the dust on window-sills,
The ghost of laughter in a hall,
The subtle change the mirror stills,
The silent crumbling of a wall.

It is the price paid in a glance,
The future held within a sigh,
The shadow of the second chance
That passes, mute, behind the eye.

It is the weaver and the thread,
The story and the turning page,
The keeper of the gentle dread
That softens, even as we age.

It does not flow; we are the stream,
And it the ever-distant shore.
It is the substance of the dream,
The ever-opened, closing door.