Two-twenty, a runcible year:
you’re separate from those who are dear.
That’s suffering, not bliss—
the Buddha said this.
It’s no longer hidden, but clear!
Two-twenty, this runcible year!
Some encounters that were just so dear:
The forest nearby,
the web, wings to fly—
you’re close as if you were right here.
Two-twenty, a year like all years:
The unexpected is that which appears.
Like it or not,
it’s different than you thought!
The escape lies beyond smiles and tears.