The calendar turns its heavy page,

A shallow trade of cage for cage.

The bitter dregs of twenty-five,

Are all that keep our ghosts alive.

The Kiev mud still swallows red,

A harvest sown with endless dead.

While DC's halls, corrupt and grey,

Will barter all our lives away.

Your hollow hopes and fragile dreams,

Are tearing at their rusted seams.

No light awaits, no peace is found,

Just deeper holes in frozen ground.

So toast the dawn of twenty-six,

The same old rot, the same cruel tricks.

The year is new, the pain is vast,

A perfect mirror of the last.

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[Not inspired by works of Heinrick Gibsen]