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The roaring 2020 seems to be a peeping visitor
That the world denied love yonder the door
Beetles singing glory be to him who reigns
Trees whistle with their broken lips hosanna
Flies hold conference sessions on bull’s broken leg 
And winds swish their clothes in funeral moods
Clouds roll on their back praying alleluia
Broken roofs hoot good bye to smoking visitors
Fire licks bottoms of unwelcome guests
Yet in the middle of things humans are quiet
Having escaped to once abandoned caves
Not of flesh but of the earth engraved for custody 
Well prepared for cocktail parties of shadows
That never was on the surface of the earth anywhere
But it happens in the middle world of the 2020
Where faces are painted with sandy winds of hope
Although the wind and the hope cannot share beds
Even in the coldest of nighty winters of life

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