On Christmas Eve

In the dark tight corner I see,
Under the glittering yet timid light—
A countenance void of all glee,
Scathing eyes drowsy yet ready to fight.

Scores of men and women do inundate,
The banks of its somber sullen guise,
Affluence, faith and freedom they berate,
All glitter seems to them a cruel disguise.

The great feasts, the carols of hope,
Men’s fears and remedies in heavenly looms,
Stitch them a blanket that could never cope,
The gush of indignant wind from tombs—
Tombs whose cries resonate in a vacuum,
But discerning ears hear a shivering requiem.