The man collected clocks.
of all ages and sizes, beat-up and broken,
fragile and exhausted.
The small East European apartment was chockfull of clocks,
clocks, faithful servants, that played,
some of them, three different melodies.

The man had repaired each one to renewed splendor,
smiling, he threw a secret switch, and instantly messages
tinkling, booming, ticking, flooded the room.

Old heat entered the room from the balcony,
from somewhere behind the darkness; the child yawned

and arranged silver coasters in a row on the couch.
How do you relate to time?, I tried to ask
as he held on his palm an eighteenth century sundial,
smiling proudly.  Do you feel that there is too little of it?
He proffered the delicate timepiece.
Feel how light it is!

We stayed a long time, too long.
Our host told an anecdote about the queen.
The child fell asleep on the couch.  We finished the port.

The man wore light-colored summer clothes,
his smile was pale, like a comic’s.
One clock could pay for a small two-bedroom suburban apartment.
Later, we talked about him,
remembered his name,
                        how it sounded.

From "Koko tarina," ("The Whole Story"), 2001
("Mies keräsi kelloja," p. 54))
Translated from Finnish by Anselm Hollo.