Lights at Christmas

The garlands are ribbons
that bind feelings
wound into balls of nostalgia.
I unstitch the backstitch
that circles the tassels
and I watch pass by
suspended figures,
family portraits.
Photos and gifts,
happy scraps of the year.
Rituals inert upon the clock.
Strokes of midnight,
kisses of wind.
They celebrate... what can be seen.
But the invisible
keeps on rocking
in a mute cradle.
Christmas is only one night,
a fleeting glimmer.
Tomorrow...

the weight of the secrets
will become an echo again.
Uncomfortable truths
are silences that do not shine
in the glass of intentions.
Christmas Eve does not mean perfection,
the toast does not mean absolution.
Marvelous people
who in spite of their prison,
choose to kindle the warmth.
My heart is imbued
with beautiful ancestors who passed through
leaving traces of love.