I have put the nativity scene on the fireplace
without forgetting the mutilated sheep
that are standing thanks to the moss
in which they sink their remaining legs.

The memories and emotions pile up
like the boys running the bulls
in a morning of adrenaline and suspense
At the alley of the Arena in July:

My father puts the figures
under the tree
symbol of life and light
that are born from the cave of Mystery.

Fondly he holds
a white angel,
flaunt craftsmanship
that announces the good news.

From the kitchen comes
the smell of apple strudel
that my mother bakes
between delitious pouting

that night comes
the emissary
of baby Jesus
to bring the gifts

We, children, spy
behind the frosted glass door
and we see flickering lights
that illuminate the tree.

We are sure

that is the angel
who talks to my father
and gives him the presents.

Finally dad opens the door.
Just the candles
and the light of the manger
Let us watch the magic scenery

we see in the shadows
packages with bows
wrapped in papers
That sparkle with the candlelight.

But we don’t touch them.
Holding the desire, first we sing
an old Croatian Christmas carol.

Finally, my father turns on the light
and we all jumped
to unwrap the gifts
of the Child God.

And we play together.
Parents, brothers and sisters
Who now have taken
Separate ways.

Today it is I who hold
The clay figures.
And no longer can’t sing along
the sweet melody of my childhood.

I need the moss
to hold me up
hiding my wounds
in front of the Glorious Manger.

But I don’t abandon
the first illusion
nor deep love
that engulfed me
when everything was new.

Writen in Pamplona, Spain, Christmas 2022 wishing you all the best from the botton of my heart