Let us stick to this seasonal soil and stand under this singing
tree’s silver shadow This Christmas, we shall celebrate our
failures too, our share of scare hidden in the current annual charades.
This year we will push our light bit slow for our next goodwill trip,
being the unperturbed contemporaries of hope, – really, I wish certain
hopes wouldn’t look like the bus-terminuses on the net – being the
eyeballs socketed so correct, never running through the
unterraced height of some anomalous clarity – being also like a
twig’s weird augury never known by any decadent botanist ever –
like the most recent edition of mind seeming as if a motherly
acceptance of samsara or whatever told by the beauticians after
they change all the black spots to the surprising butterflies on your face –

being just the humans, without the epicenters – being a verdict of this
year’s polythene lily, its no-smell issue such a bad year of mannerisms –
being so much locked under a curious skin – being a body susceptible to
a saying so venomous in the air – being the member of this year’s
learnedness, no, we shouldn’t breathe free more, no, we shouldn’t
unmask our faces even for our mirrors

Being still in the freedom of what you never have known by a name

This Christmas, we will decorate every tree as if each leaf this morning
a galactic green drop
Every time I utter it for every moment is my day and my night

Every New Year begins in my eyes with a drop of
water you call an ocean of life