transitioning among years

he is a man of the past
no matter how beautiful this past was
is just was
there is nothing left anyway
for today
the man whom he has become
is different now
so do not search in vain
to find again in him
who he was
only the mandolin
can sing the same song twice
while the voice of the singer
changes and roughens
a bit every winter
he still comes to sing
at my door his carols;
the eyes of the mind search
through the misty air
for the truth and the value;
i know his wishes are true
so I give him my coin,
he moves on to a different home
followed by a cheerful crowd
of young carolers