There is no need to expect to create, at such a time.

Confusion, a sense of being confounded.

Disappointment, fear of what is to come.

The moon is almost full, almost  ripe,

But I am not ripe.

I anticipate no fruits.

I am dismantling dreams. wringing out the old.

The end of a year of death and irony,

Wars and the killing of the innocent.

 

Yule, feasts of turkey and wine,

The bright hearth, rest and friends,

But a sombre knowledge is turning in me,

A desire to wring out the blood, to wash out the stains, for fear of renewing them.

 

Pour out more wine. Let us drink to hope.

Let flood out your fears, wash out old ways.

Pour out more wine. Let us love one another.

See how the blood flows as old wounds reopen

Pour out more wine. Lay your hand on your heart.

Lay your head in the lap of the earth.

Let the tears run freely. And rest. And rest.

 

The wicked, deadky white goddess still rules, with death in her train.