Another number becomes history soon.
A little change in the digits is that all?
To make a heap of happenings doom,
In the pool of past, only to recall?
Every time this happens as it should,
The counting starts and stops at a dozen,
A part of the sociological cycle, ever since childhood;
Yet the mortal pains of letting go, goes on.
Habits I guess are the worst of addictions,
We love to see the new, but holding on
To the last few residues of an yesterday,
Just as we count the last seven days of December,
And the final countdown to midnight of the 31sst day.
It comes but to go, only that we realize
What has been gone by the change of just a calendar.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The counting starts and stops at a dozen, A part of the sociological cycle, ever since childhood; Yet the mortal pains of letting go, goes on. Habits I guess are the worst of addictions, We love to see the new, but holding on To the last few residues of an yesterday, dream of new year with passion