Chill in the air—frost at the door. Poppies in ice seal themselves and stand.

There is mist in the air, billowing in a white flame. And all gaze in wonder at the clock. And all laugh and watch, and fold their hands, because the yellow sunshine dandelions have long shed their gray fur, and the birthday candles have been snapped down the middle of the wax.

Folded hands as the veterans pass by, as the buildings present themselves, as the gray sky passes by.

I wish for peace.

I wish for safety.

I wish for good.

I wish, I wish...

I wish for freedom evermore.

I wish for the fruits of hope, flowing into the heart warm and light and beautiful.

I wish for the next thousand years on the Gregorian calendar, and evermore.

The cold, swollen fingers in their gloves are clasped in this century of strife, another period of chaos; the fall of the Han, the knights in Crusade—

I wish for Ping An, Rinascimento.

I wish for peace.

I wish for safety.

I wish for good.

I wish, I wish...

I wish for freedom.

I wish for the fruits of hope, for the next thousand years, that fill the heart warm and hearty, the light of the glowing sun.

And evermore.