As every year, we must admit, will be;
But most years seem, at least, to have much less
Tumult across the months. We cannot see
The future, but we have to live in hope
That something will disrupt the madness soon.
If nothing does, we may no longer cope
With all the change that swirls like a typhoon
Around us. Everything is now unsure
And what seemed certain when the year began
No longer can be trusted. There's no cure
For this disruption; we cannot now plan
Another year. And yet we have to try.
But as we plan, we know we also lie.
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