A Face of Many Phases

The year has a face of many phases with dark and shining rays on the paths of its races, those that face its dark rays feel as if axed with sharp axes, full of pains and thunder of amazes, but those who face its shiny rays rejoice with parted lips of praises. The year has a phase of breeze that blows briskly and brimmed bliss to the brows of the eyes, if those eyes are not affected with cataracts of hardships, and clouded with the lens of distress. The year has a phase of sound that eavesdrops euphoria and eulogy to the ears, if those ears are not covered with a head-tie of frustration, and its holes are not blocked by the dusts of depression. 2025 is a firewood that blazes with fire flames and dissolves into ashes, its fire flames warm some lucky folks who feel an icy of coldness, but splashes the dust of ashes to those who are been fucked by the fickle finger of fate.