I am writing an ode for you
our approaching twenty twenty-three
to appease the wrath in your genes,
a hereditary trait,
to appeal to the demented elements 
for much-needed clemency,
to entreat the clashing warlords
to cease their animosities,
to spare our infants displacement
and drowning across traversed seas, 
to annul the prophetic proclamations
of a postmodern Madame Sosostris.

I am writing an ode for you 
despite our embedded despondency
over the plagues that stride the avenues
of underdeveloped and civilized states,
over the darkness that envelops us
at midnight and in the middle of the day,
over the threats of imminent famine
in an age of flagrant obesity,
over the ugliness that pervades our lives,
over the despair that pulsates in our veins,
for I have pledged to deck with daisy chains
your three hundred and sixty-five days.