The wall's oracle, it whispers the rhythm of days, months, and years, marking time's silent march with squares and numerals.

My ribs are carved from forest bone, my voice from equines tail. I wail when bows run through my hair, and hush when fingers fail.

What falls but never breaks, and breaks but never falls?

I’m stolen gold or slang for cheeks, one found in chests, the other in seats.

I sit on a throne with a crown on my head, or I stay on your desk with your pencils instead.