And it was on one festive Monday morn
That the watch shop opened on Madison;
Champagne sparkled as the new brash doors
Opened to smiles and delusive laughter. First in
The window stood Patek, haughty and highborn,
A medallion for the privileged few, an elusive pearl
That scattered phantoms on the main. To their right
Was Jaeger-LeCoultre, tourbillon mocking, diamonds
Glistening, luring the weak of heart to descend
Beneath the glare. Beside them stood Glashütte,
Lordly and urbane, peering down upon the peasantry
In arrogance and conceit. And there was Rolex, seated
On a throne of garish gold, exuding vice and avarice,
A case that glimmered with rubies and the finest
Steel, and a bracelet that breathed forth sin and a lust
For power. Yet in the corner of this display lay a strange
Watch that was different from the others; it had no
Price tag, and no stately name stood beside it. Shimmering
Mesmerically, an opaque crystal unveiled a cryptic
Dial, and of ancient hands that bespoke the past, the
Present, and of time that shall yet be; and beneath this
Primordial haze, the face suddenly vanished revealing
A Gazan boy lying on the floor of a crude dwelling,
Subsumed by listless eyes, grasping at the air, black
Bones drowning – as the adamantine power hovered over
Him in silence. And beside this skeletal form knelt a
Woman weeping softly, holding a cadaverous hand,
Enveloped by the half-light; and from the fathomless depths
Of her rent and ravaged heart, a cry burst forth that
Shook the heavens, the stars, and a moon bathed in sorrow