The bell is old and covered with rust.
Patches of moss can be seen on its surface.
A frayed rope hangs down from one of its sides.
The pieces of string are pulled by the wind as the storm blows by.
The storm is one of those things that so much must withstand.
The bell is like the bending trees, and it’s like the neglected garbage cans,
Which were left outside. Now they blow down the street.
As you watch the bell, you tend to think,
About how each day it has another crack. Each day it has another ding,
But each morning we can see the bell is an enduring thing,
For promptly at eight, the worn bell rings.
Even though the old bell has lost its shine,
Its ring is still clear and strong every time.