Christmas wishes, mine, I’ll tell:
To gain nor lose anything else.
What others bring wrapped in bows,
Are only trinkets, I should know.
Instead souls, the fill the shelves.
Who asks for gems, whistles and bells,
Never felt the pang of death knells,
Nor heard the quiet when they go,
Once a rosy-cheeked little elf,
Love lies cold in a narrow cell.
Hear the voices in the winds that blow,
From wither they have left to go.
To gain nor give, I ask myself,
Copyright © Ashley Poort