A drop of blood welled up in consequence of an intense pain,
a small corner of confined suffering.
I turned the angel on its back and noticed that a sharp wire was protruding from its wing.
Never trust the sexless.
I stuck my finger in my mouth, and became again a child and a vampire for a short while.
The tree looked at me while sewing the night with its pine needles,
and the taste of iron summoned the taste buds.
My melted profile looked at my face
mirroring itself in a golden ball,
the luxurious garland shone inside the room
and Jesus is not yet in the crib.
Santa Claus is taking his last journey,
the little blonde girl is going to trust him for another year.
Euphoria is nourished by incredible stories, and so is the love for mysteries.
Christmas holds on for children, for the unity of families ruined by the crisis,
by bad examples, television.
By commonplaces, such as the pursuit of happiness,
by getting along without any reason, without any joy.
A little bell with an arrow-shaped clapper has struck my heart
and now I am thinking of you and I wish I had your finger in my mouth.
So goes the world, in opposition to our intentions.