The new year

Every time the sun goes down our
Moon changes its shapes each night
And will set-in what will usher in
the new year ; like a match pass
they will come along the dusty roads
into where the hazy winds will blow.
There in their nostrils they will be,
Placidly amidst the noise and haste
Beside a scramble for goats and fowls:
Alive or sick or tiny they can be for their
Blood only, which is shed happily for a celebration
On the poor soil who only mourns the sad death
Of a fellow creature like himself.
A bloodless fight of fork and knife
Over who to enter mouth
And their struggle to enter mouth
Is heard as they wait for the clap
Of the poor and helpless plate on the table.
Into the air sounds of rockets
And blurring from loudspeakers
keep the noisy awake on guard
a worthless fortune , an invaded castle
of the placid as they lie in wait,
wishing the night to pass by.
When all is over , the bloody
Joyful moment is remembered with
The lips and told by the proud;
How they caused t mourn, the ground
While the silent moon and sun consoled.