*

The poet, having read the Mexican legend and fallen asleep on Christmas Eve, dreams thus:

 

Pepita:

Through village streets the children bring their gifts:

Sweetmeats and incense, passion fruits and flowers,

Toys, blankets, cakes; and towards the midnight hour

Sing birds upon the housetops: swallow, finch,

 

Robin and lark, to praise that holy scene

Of blue-robed mother, infant in her arms:

Bright wondrous manger, safe from ire and harm,

Where children lay their gifts this Christmas Eve.

 

Such richness spreads around the swaddled babe:

Reds, golds, and greens which blur within the mind –

But look I on our bare hands, and I sigh,

For no gifts bring we, we two wretched waifs.

 

Pedro:

Such beauteous things bedeck the plaza stones,

All lustrous with a sacred candlelight:

Those candies, fans, and pewter soldiers shine;

And bright-dyed cloths of zigzag patterns glow.

 

Pepita:

A mile through dark we’ve walked without a light,

The moon our only lantern ’cross the hills

And fields where winter gusts send sudden chills

To flesh that pulls the coat or mantle tight.

 

Pedro:

Close by the infant twinkle lavish things,

His finest gifts – small animals of glass:

Rose-colored lion, violet-blue giraffe,

Leopards stained orange, cerulean ibexes,

 

A grape-green horse, a monkey milky-white…

Stare I upon the elephants and swans,

And glimpse, perhaps, some place my heart is drawn –

Some sempiternal fantasy of light.

 

Pepita:

A woman swims inside this starry sea

Looming on high; and in my heart she speaks

Resplendent phrases, murmurings of peace,

And to mine eyes lends crystal imagery…

 

Both:

Some paltry weeds have grown ’twixt cobblestones,

And sadly do we pick a limp bouquet

To set before the infant as we pray

And listen to the midnight church bells’ tones.

 

Pepita:

The lamps beam reverently at windowsills,

And hush has settled on the birds and bells

Which lent their music to the stars – those knells

And notes which ornament the deep goodwill

 

Of frigid floors of heaven, galaxies,

And beacon that did guide to rustic barn

Those monarchs three who slumbered under palms

By daylight, and by night at camels’ speed

 

A world becalmed passed o’er… We lay the stems,

Unworthy present, in the azure folds

Of Mary’s cloak – and hope rich glints of gold

Blinds not the child to this gift nearest him.

 

Pedro:

Far off, guitars are strumming – lightly borne

Those strains are, by a wind as faint as breath

Exhaled from corners of the earth’s cold depths –

A wind which speaks how each soul joys and mourns.

 

Pepita:

All somber sleeps the world beyond this town

’Neath star-strewn sky of void and mystery –

And gently dreams the dark of hill and lee;

And softly turns this heaven’s silver gown.

 

Pedro:

A drop of red has trickled on our weeds…

More fall from some place hidden high above:

Some source that touches our poor gift with blood –

And brings forth flame-red, ’bove the dark green, leaves.

 

Pepita:

The children all about speak not a word,

But gaze with ’stonished eyes on how’s transformed

This offering from two young ones forlorn

To vibrant bloom, like some ephemeral bird

 

Flown down from nowhere… How long might it glow,

This blossom born of blood? I trow I glimpse –

In magic hours of night, while children slink

To bed – some illness, laying the flower low.

*