Upon turning the momentous calendar page,
It is easy to think myself a wisely learnéd sage;
Yet the question mark remains.
Yes, I still quietly — with fondness — look back,
And I like finding old letters in a sack,
But perhaps it’s time for a change.
Oh, Muse of Tomorrow, guide me far from sorrow,
And shelter me longer from little Cupid’s arrow;
Give me courage against the pains.
Who is to say that the future is far away?
I know we’ll get to it, living day by day,
Over much rough and wily terrain.
Simple joys and fears will make it all worthwhile:
A frown, a tear, a laugh, a prayer, a smile;
But from excess let me abstain.
As upon each morrow continues to rise the Sun,
We know this saga’s story is only halfway done:
There’ll be much more to explain.
Using the current arbitrary calendar, this was written on 01-01-01, at 11:01 p.m.