Waiting for the Birth

Christmas cold is sweeping the brown grass . A cold breeze lifts up a fallen leaf . The sun is a light orange biscuit half eaten by winter clouds.

But now the sun has come up from behind a bare tree. Grey clouds are biting into it once again. A new winter has got to be cold on old bones. A crow has passed by, with a listless morning caw.

Someone in the streets will say a happy Christmas. I may tell him not to say a happy Christmas but a merry Christmas . Paper stars are waving in the breeze on Christian balconies. Along with wet sarees and late night lungis.

On the other side of the lake we saw crowds quieting up before wine shops. They might be stressed out waiting for the Birth all night. Merry Christmas, we say.

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