The old year dies slowly,

in storms of howling winds,

rattling in the chimney pots,

tearing at the naked trees,

ripping them up, exposing buried roots….

thus are the mighty fallen.

The old year dies slowly,

the old year dies slowly,

felling the ranks of our heroes,

stealing their music, their song,

their magic…

and leaving a deathly silence.

The old year dies slowly,

taking the icons of our youth,

those who reached for the stars,

and became thus themselves.

And led us dancing into dreams

and fantasies,

replacing drab reality.

The old year dies slowly,

with veils of mist

and tears of rain;

with fading light in tired eyes

and darkness.

Yet as it sinks in death throes

the new year is brought to birth.