| In the richest of seasons, we’re drenched to the bone.
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| While the light is still bright, we bring the year to a close.
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| Sometimes we’re standing there naked,
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| frozen in our own past, and winter’s ritual colors.
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| She rings out her last
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| And in the richest of seasons, in these colors we bathe,
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| we greet the onset of winter and what we know she will take.
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| And so you make resolutions, if it’s all just the same
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| If a wound is a wound, why not just cut myself upon change?
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| In black and light, the year is formally closed
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| Yet still the darkest of seasons shimmer silver and gold
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| So let’s dress up like penguins, we’ll huddle en masse
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| We will ring in the new year, we’ll throw a curse to the last
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| And so we make resolutions, if it’s all just the same
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| If a wound is a wound, why not just cut myself upon change?
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| And so a toast to the New Year, and farewell to the last
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| May we dream ourselves forward, frozen wind at our backs
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| And so a toast to the New Year, and farewell to the last
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| May we dream ourselves forward, frozen wind at our backs
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| Another toast to the New Year, may we spring back to life
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| When the colors start shifting in the burgeoning light
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| May we spring back to life… may we spring back to life
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| When the colors start shifting in the burgeoning light
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| In black and white, the year is formally closed. |