In winter nights when fires had died out near Ypsilon mountain, with star strung skies hung soft about, gathered he the children, the ones who see, unto his keep, in new deep conscious, a new belief. No tale of shepherds, or wise men here, just old religion, that takes one fears, and dances fury, in yuletide faire, unto the heavens in winters air. The dusk, the night, it sweeps away, the pain of years, one thought would stay, an interest bearing of no defeat, comes his white skin glowing like ice in sheets. Gathered and huddled, and now dispersed, sweet children of ages of all the earth, a boy a Pan, a midnight birth, the gift in the mind of all stages.
Has there ever been word that he has been birthed, by woman of flesh, or womb of the earth? Are signs in his eyes, that speak happiness, or is it all fable, the legend that is. Does it not come in gifts without sin, a standard of giving, the friend that’s within? Dare say that eyes see him, on cold winters night, the spirit that’s watching the ghost that is bright. For he has come calling from that holy site, out near that mountain, with star strung skies. And just like that piper who ask you to try, he’s flying tonight through your mind.
So many have traced him, and thought they’d found fame, through their view of history, or what lore would say, and fun in the winter, oh fun in his name, it’s not what he’s wished them to say. The whispers round starlight of what he has done, the truth came from heartache of when he’d lost one, and learned from the spirit, the hope when he had none, to give all his love away. So children look forward, and turn not around, take all of his gift, and forward it on, and watch morning come, oh watch it come on, a gift, a new day. A gift a new day.
In winter nights when fires had died out, near Ypsilon mountain, with star strung skies hung soft about, gathered he the children, the ones who see, unto his keep, in new deep conscious, a new belief.
May this season bring you a new day. – 12.24.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל