My hair on the wind does flow, Oblivion, like death, can be a home, When there is nowhere to go,
But to remain in a borderless roam.

Amid twinkling neon lights, cars hurrying home,
To catch the last breath of the dying year,
And watch it pass by beneath the dark empty dome.

The countdown begins, the year has died,
Amid the cheers, I am dying, dying, Amid the labor, my heart has cried, My soul is listlessly flying... flying, While inside my pocket, a hope is burning.

January 1,2025