The turn of a date, a month and a year-
What feeble reason for all this cheer!
A day is a day is a day, they claim;
Just as mundane by any other name.
All this ado over the coming of a year-
Parties, resolves and
Peddlers' gimmicks, soulless veneer!
But, nouveau Scrooge, for what it's worth
This first day is but a symbol of rebirth -
Of friendships, of warmth and ill will erased
Of reflection, of inner cobwebs effaced.
The life of a day is that you imbue.
Then, imagine a day when
The zest of all humans accrue!
Dates, inanimate, can scarce life-change .
We englitter of our own, the sweep of an age
by the pixie dust of our Hope and Spunk.
Dreams take flight, old doubts shrunk.
For they who plan to travel afar
Have now and again
To start from tabula
rasa.
