Over hill marches old man Tym,

His pack overfilled with wine,

Pulling through hefty silky viel,

Pulling planet and sun on long curled vine,

Sinking and rolling like tumbleweeds on the vale,

Long curls form whitening beard,

Twisted staff curves time,

In cauldron over filled,

Crescendo of the clock strike,

Tick.. tock.. tick… on each dotted line,

Hands crash along old man Tym’s design,

Pulling gravity through its paces,

Marching over mountain top and lost places,

Sun beams bending at his will,

Ever curving nature’s energy pattern.