December, the month of that most holy day,
which makes Christian even the falling snow.
(In whispers, the winds tell everything they know
to the forest and the pebbles in the river spray.)
Each soul, at this great story, awakes afresh,
reviving childhoods from ages gone by.
(The country churches speak out and testify,
and all the earth is one great festive crèche.)
Is it snowing again in the countryside?
Where homes, in vigil, comfort and console,
where words, now full of depth, are intensified,
Jesus, tonight, will come again and stay
with the beggar, the finch, and the wandering soul,
who, like a leaf, flutters along the way.
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