A Christmas card

Beneath a distant nova light,
I will be at Stonehenge
howling in the falling snow.
The wolves that bay, another world away,
will be singing- “Saturnalia!”
Invade my sleep,
and enter my dreams
with songs of the dawning age;
while the Judaean king
looks for the son,
first born, as told in prophecy.

I wait for Rome to bless us all
with another pagan holiday:
blur the path and change some truth
with hymns for the occasion.
Gather the sheep,and praise the wolves
discovered wearing bloody wool,
and return The Book
back to the shelf
reserved for all the fairy tales.

The son is born, Romulus!
Celebrate!
The sun is dying:
a gift of smoke! To you,
no cigar,
but thanks for trying.

When feral children
mime words of wisdom:
another dying time is near.
The ones who rise to say that they can lead us
keep that wisdom near
the heart,
and to the heart
the sons of wolves, they always speak
wont say: “compassion is not
a truth for the strong,
just a lie to feed the weak."

Raise your hands and be nailed!
Tomorrow we may praise
ideas proposed, but failed
to tame the human race.