The year changes; dies and is reborn like a phoenix from its ashes
But no one ever notices the death pangs of an year as it convulses into the next
This is my take on it
The revolution is over,
Life has come full circle,
And so has the Earth.
The winter cold snows freely,
Burial rites for a geriatric year,
Well into its twelfth and last month.
The clouds gather in condolence.
The sky darkens to express sorrow,
A blanket of white to set the mood.
Nature mourns as Nature is reborn.
The annual passing away made an occasion.
Effigies of the dead one burnt,
Individual pyres, contributing to the whole.
In memoriam, good times once forgotten , now revived.
Music, explosions, fresh stars in the sky.
Then a moment, neither here nor there.
An epoch transition compressed into a millisecond.
The euphoria of unbelonging,
When the past is dead,
And the travails of the new have not yet begun.
Then death throes give way to birth pangs.
Time speeds up again.
And through death, new life is born.