DEAR SANTA

The next time you’ll be
Flying across the petals of Africa
Please,
Don’t come in red—come in black
Or never come back,
For our eyes have seen many sheds
Of blood spilt on the land
We once thought was our father’s.

For donkey’s years
Our hearts have known no bliss,
Gifts you bring,
Our eyes know not how to
Turn them into immeasurable memories.
‘Cause what we see here
Isn’t what we get.

Dear Santa,
The next time
You lace the world on your sleeves
Before dropping a bowl of candies in the Middle East,
Don’t go in red—go in black,
For their eyes have
Gotten used to seeing black and white dreams
That are engulfed with horrific tales
Of how their mother’s built tombs
In between their legs,
And how their bellies
Turned into queendoms of fatherless boys
Who later on turned into burnt men.
Their hearts have turned into albums
Of torn photographs that illuminate
Faces of their fathers who went and never
Returned to tell tales of how
They swallowed bullets without sighing.

Dear Santa,
What’s the point of
Eating chocolate or marshmallow,
Or bread and butter, and jam
If our tongues burn with unuttered words
That crave to find their way out into the skies?
How do our mouths sing jingle bells
If our vocal cords
Only know how to turn weeps into dirges?

O dear Santa,
Quit your nonsense
And leave our ripples untamed.