Those days hast gone, when we sipp’d
Bliss and bitter from same cannikin.
Cannikin sculpt’d with two thousand four.
What hast thou attain’d from it?
Naught will die, naught will born.
Here ’tis, new year hath born.
Now, old earth hath given birth.
Let thy cannikin fill’d anew with glee.
Hence, knowledge and thoughts will go high.
Clear and bright, it’ll be always.
Bright as sky, clear as mother’s milk.
All things’ll change as days, ye welcome.