unto us a son…
and English trumpets blare their welcome shout, as
banners wave above the chanting crowds;
monarchic line fixed one more princely notch secure,
a nation thrills to mark the child’s each breath.
and unto us a son…
in frigid mountains of a weary, worn Afghanistan,
in desert sands a-blazing under fierce Saharan sun,
in cramped rooms tucked behind a Broadway’s neon glitz,
in ancient caverns deep beneath the Syrian war;*
alas for these no fanfare, save a weary mother smile,
no notice bannered riotous across the evening news. Yet
angels trumpet their arrival too, and saints look down in
wonder, seeing these new sons, despite their meager births,
as treasured as one born to English crown.
Can our eyes learn to see the same?
*caves built by the Romans are now being used for shelter by some Syrian refugees