All of us were born with our hands in chains
and with our feet beneath us in the graves.
Fate as archaeological remains
grows nearer, but we must cease to be slaves.
Oh, shall we wait for death’s hand to grab us?
Shall we wait to become the forgotten?
Shall we bleat and whine at the unfairness?
Shall we let ourselves fall like chinquapin?
No, we must remember to ourselves ask:
Was the day stolen by the cunning clock?
Or did we succeed at our only task
by making the most of every tick tock?
My time belongs, not to the clock, to me,
for clocks are only tools of slavery.
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 