Sometimes a circle’s finitely infinite
It comes round the same way it went
But one full cycle and all’s not straight
Changes along the way, personalities bent.
The years are a circle of paradox
Where distance plays alongside closeness
The end must kiss the beginning at nox
And yearn for an year to meet again, yes.
The last year, the next, but January will be January,
And spring will come when it must;
Promises made afresh will grow weary,
Unblossomed like each year till it must.
So is not the new year but the familiar?
The calendar not a line but a circle?
Oh the humor! Ironical this beginning
That springs forth the belly of the ending
All’s twisted come new year
All celebrate pain they must bear
Ignoring each year that they’re slow dying.
SHALL I BE REMEMBERED?
Time and dust, green leaves grow grey
Years rolling by
The millenia new in the brink of adulthood
Long years fade behind.
Mewling and innocent in the cradle of ages
Came riding the 2000s
Nineteen years ago, still a babe
Suckling on the freshness of the world.
When the years were a toddler came I,
Came I born new
2002, when the world teetered in new legs
Together we grew, fast as fading memory
Riding into adolescence.
New thoughts, new feelings, new personalities shaped
By all shadow men holding the reigns of the present.
Before we knew, one behind the other,
Descended we onto youth.
A cloying age of realization,
And consciousness creeping in.
Turning our heads, at the horizon we stare,
Where it vanishes into a distance we knew not we came.
Turning the leaflets of time,
What gathers behind? dust motes in air currents of past.
Dearest, lost years where did you disappear?
Shy shadows growing in the nooks of memory?
When moments grow old they become weeds
Golden weeds sadly reminiscing
Since like sisters that tumble one after the other,
We were born close on each other’s heels,
As you mature, time, so do I,
And staring we sit at the sky that swallowed our past
Sometimes I summon those shadow weeds
And sniff out their rosy memory,
When all those forgotten years of being a child
Oh, world! You as fresh as I
But everything that’s born must grow weary of this world
And the turning pages of the calendar remind
That I must make rich my elder sister – my contemporary time,
With droplets of my sweat and sweet dreams.
Time fades, years blow with the silence of forgotten things,
And what’s gone will never return
But only, each time, grow steadily fatter, faster
These fresh years adding more to the old.
One day I die, a century mayhaps,
One day, ten centuries hence,
You grow grey too and the 3000s begin, ten me’s seen by then
Will I be remembered?
Born with a new beginning of the Earth’s age
I pray that these passing years hold value
That each day gone unrecoverable
Etches me harder in your dust laden memory years hence.
The days of plays played to be forgotten passed
Now each day vying for growth.
A fresh century preparing to be filled with great events,
A fresh life mine, poised to achieve in your arms.
After all, after all, born weren’t we together?
This new millenia and I?
And many, greater, will come to you; you with ten times my life
Then will this friend of your younger days be not forgotten?