The final surge of innocence floods
A Catalan January night.
Candy is caught in prams and hoods
Sticky soles kick and fight.
The town walks home, on cloud nine
With dreams of gifts and fads;
My daughter’s hand slips from mine
- her friends are not with dads.
She'll pour a Scotch and cut some cake
To keep the camels warm,
As every year the routine rolls,
Except the smile that says she knows
The last Magi forsook his star.
Adéu, forever, to Balthazar.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 6:38 AM UTC
The final surge of innocence floods
A Catalan January night.
Candy is caught in prams and hoods
Sticky soles kick and fight.
The town walks home, on cloud nine
With dreams of gifts and fads;
My daughter’s hand slips from mine
- her friends are not with dads.
She'll pour a Scotch and cut some cake
To keep the camels warm,
As every year the routine rolls,
Except the smile that says she knows
The last Magi forsook his star.
Adéu, forever, to Balthazar.
In Spain the feast of the Three Kings (or the three Magi/wise men) substitutes the Santa Claus story for children. The Kings arrive in every town and city for a long procession every Jan 5th night, throwing sweets as they go, and later they leave gifts for the children in their homes. This poem was inspired by my daughter's lower level of excitement at this year's festival...