A day, the last one,
                             Of the last month.
                           The incessant winds,
                        The skies, of Arctic blue
              And the passing clouds, conclude by
                          The tick of the clock.
                              It’s the thirty-first,
        Thirty days since the year’s afresh last month,
It takes, for making a passing highlight, on expectations and reality
                              And the 31st day,
       A prerequisite of something immature, and it’s
          Certainty towards the Uncertain, makes it
                             The First ‘last' one.