Weaving webs of
dewdrop dreams,
she awakens to
sunrises that evade
Christmas, happiness,
celebrations that ring
sorrows with a haze
of yellow fog. The
past is now forgotten.
Auld lang syne’s notes
vaporise to the pain
of loneliness, darkness
that halts life for others.
Sing Noel, they say, as
missiles have the last say.
The world is chaotic
with her pain, their pain
and your own need of
not to see pain. Otherwise,
how do we celebrate while
a mother weeps for her
child as we embrace
the Mother and Child,
whose divinity cannot
stop wars, wipe blood
or tears or repair hearts
broken repeatedly by
neglect? How do we
ignore tear-filled pain?
Noel. Noel. Noel.
May Goodwill prevail.