Watching the dying year
on its sick bed,
At once am at the riverside, eyes wet.
I have seen it jump into the trees, this wild deer.
After the many days,
He appears to have left too soon,
taking the hopes and aspirations on its tail.
He lived several moons, counting twelve in full.
Now too late.
Too late it is almost so early
to the birth of a new year we make merry
Hence we count with a new date
A dropp of water, then wine on its tongue.
These tunes, similar to those we sang
to the dead year serving little purport
Can they from womb to tomb produce no results?
It's new year's eve
As we bury the dead year in grief,
the dirge so brief, hurrying into the lullaby
this one must do good before it soon dies
It's new year's eve.
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