Had not this year gone by, I’d never know,
That three hundred sixty-five days unfold,
In ink-black shadows, where lost dreams softly fold,
In endless toil, where peace and joy forego.
Had not this year gone by, I’d still believe,
That elders strive for youth’s true, noble gain,
Yet find their hollow speeches, veils for our concealed pain,
Their words a mere deceptive weave, like autumn leaves.
Had not this year gone by, I’d be unaware,
Of worthlessness, that haunts the human soul,
We die unheard; our cries dissolve in air,
As scattered fragments, echoing our silent toll.
Had not this year gone by, I’d not discern,
A woman’s heart, where love and grief entwine,
A child’s laughter, a snapshot frozen in time,
Echoes through empty halls, where memories chime.
Had not this year gone by, I’d not have seen,
That man can weep, and kiss the earth below,
To mothers, wives, with hearts laid bare and keen,
In this year’s truth, their hidden sorrows show.
Had not this year gone by, we might not tread,
The path that many souls have wandered through,
Yet still, we find ourselves where hope is shed,
As shadows linger, drawing us anew.