The Birth of God is a farce-
A frantic celebration of useless
Taradiddle.
Should we fear the Lord or
Should the Lord fear us?
For we have become the victim
To the cobweb we weave
Again and again.
Where riches are counted as Godly
And innocence is spat on,
Where one child is celebrated
And the others fray
Like the knitted somber night
Where umbra is unseen but the carol is heard-
‘Silent Night, Holy Night…’
I
Will the snow ever answer to the little boy’s question?
Who wanted to sing in the church choir once
Only once-‘Silent Night, Holy Night…’
He who mended the shoes of his master at dawn
And buried husk and dreams at noon
Who was caned for an unpolished pearl in the evening
And drowned his nocturnal fears in tears under the moon.
II
Everyday remained the same. It was after all his routine
To be in servitude, to give and never ask-freeborn slavery.
Guests were regular at the masters
Guests who never pitied, never uttered a word-
Mankind witnesses its malice
After all, they had their own Victor-awaiting caning
While burying husk and dreams.
III
In summer, the Sun abdicated the pantheon
And became as miserable as a slob.
Its fiery beacon mesmerises breaths
Which never came to Victor but joined the Sun
Making the little boy sweat, puff and swear-
Swear at the tender age of nine.
Shackles often unwind humans
Who is both the master and the slave.
IV
The same summer makes the infants cry
Making the lady hit Victor out of angst
But Victor’s tears are dried up oceans.
So, he pours the soup for the masters
And resurrects his will to allow dirty porridge
To slide through his throat-menacingly
As if to suck every bit of his life away,
As if to poison his blood-his innocent blood
With the venom called survival.
V
In the night, the pain of being an orphan kicks in
And the choir at distance acts as an actor
A theatre of solaces where the little boy plays
His dream role-singing once
Only once-‘Silent Night, Holy Night…’
VI
The summer goes and he lives the routine
He clutches onto the monotony-throughout.
Spring and Autumns are the Sun’s rooster
With wings of pain and talons of dirty porridge.
Winter would have been a friend
If the boy had wool on him.
But he had no wool or friend
And will never have one-till his end.
VII
Victor had only one devotee-the shivers.
When he spilled the soup and was caned
Till his thumbs were numb
And pale with no pump of blood,
He shivered but didn’t cry
As Victor’s tears were dried up oceans.
In the night, he dared to question the snow again
He had one dream-to sing once
Only once-‘Silent Night,Holy Night’
Nights came and came again but his spirit never fluttered
He would sing one night when the moon would
Glisten its crater to witness the lowest of mankind.
VIII
One night, Victor silently opened the window
He walked a mile in the open woods.
It was a heavy night
With heavy trees and heavy owls bellowing.
He walked in darkness but he wasn’t alone.
For once, he felt as if
The church bells rang to welcome him.
But the snow had other plans-
To unleash its ungodliness
And spread its wings onto Victor’s face
Till he succumbed to his worthlessness.
IX
The boy jumped and slumped into a lump.
He fell down and didn’t get up
Finally, he didn’t have to survive anymore
Neither his question nor his dream moved
At a distance, the choir could be heard
‘Silent Night, Holy Night…’
While the boy remained wordless
While his body dissolved in layers of snow
While his soul was free of the routine
Only to walk like the Wandering Jew
Forever and ever.
X
The unmoving question still echoed
Against the craters of the moon who were the only audience
To this play of mankind’s downfall
Where the actor is both the master and the slave.
The snow had finally answered and so had the moon
Under the silent and holy night,
There lied Victor-dead and forgotten.
The Social Nerd 
