All of us escaped the past and the last thing we should do is go back there.
When we were back there we were never really there.
We were just being nostalgic all the time.
Blame it on your beautiful childhood. Christmas was always arriving.
The merchants of the present obligated you to make purchases
for more modern Christmases. Nostalgia became your propaganda against propaganda.
Christmas was no longer ours. I drank in my rented room without a tree.
Others were faking it, as far as I could see.
Did you expect to get anything in this poem other than miserable me?
Well, surprise. You found a good poem. I am fixing the light on you.
I am only here as a friendly stranger.
If you see the past, you see you escaped danger.
In museums, monsters which can do you no harm are viewed.
You lived. Everything about the past conspires to put you in a slightly better mood.
What else do you want?
Memories of memories of Christmas?
The slow way in which the dark came?