Every year at this time,
I get tired of listening to
The same old lines;
That how you have to fully live
These last few days of this year,
To be able to start a new book
With some beautiful lines.
I never get that,
‘Cuz I never had a new book.
My book is old, heavy, fragile, and half-torn;
It carried the memories of my bluebird days,
A few pieces of happiness that is long gone.
I keep this old book close to me,
And keep adding new lines to the blank spaces
Or add new pages only a few;
For my life is nothing but a collection of these old memories,
From which I never came out and to me they are still as fresh as new.
So every year at this time,
I turn the pages backward and rewind,
To look at everything good or bad that I have been through;
To come to the last page again and to tell myself,
That I’m good with this old, heavy, fragile, and half-torn book,
With a few blank pages maybe but nothing brand new.