In hours it must ring again
to interrupt the risk of rest.

Instinctively, the groans precede
mumbling, fumbling under sheets,
the arm to clear the comforter,
the hand that reaches, feels around,
and finds and silences alarms
so most may fall asleep again.

The few who seem to stay awake
can see the grieving was no dream
but rather the recurring scourge
of history's repeated sins.

Some wakeful saint winds up the clock,
resets the bells to sound at dawn,
then fights the urge to pause and yawn.

The future needs the tireless.