Year's Exhale
The year exhales its final breath,
A whisper of worn-out dreams.
The city's pulse, a slow sigh,
As if the very streets are tired,
Under the last of the night’s stars.
The people, too, their eyes,
Gazing into the abyss of time,
Their faces, masks of worn stone,
The music, a mournful hum,
A requiem for the passing year.
In the park, the tennis players,
Their rackets, a gentle kiss,
The ball, a soft, white sigh.
A bird's scream, a distant cry,
A challenge, a call to arms.
I sit on a stump, a worn throne,
The world, a slow, tranquil dance.
Lost in the haze of a fading year,
Trying to find the words,
To capture the essence of the end.
