The nativity is now but candle lights
in the town that cannot sleep;
where twenty lights no longer shine
and mourning is so deep
that comfort cannot comfort
the unfathomable grief.
Where tears are decorations,
diamonds in their flood,
flowing, rushing, firestorms
touching places nothing should.
Here are unwrapped presents,
here undecorated trees;
last nowells will not be canted
on this Winter’s tidy breeze.
This Hamelin’s lost children
pied-pipered by the gun
has pierced the soul
of Christmas for all
and everyone.
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