'Tis a but night
A night ruled by hot and warm air left by the sun light, and by the white cold snow of the north.
When the south gets the hottest, and the north gets the coldest.
'Tis the night when it is remembered that Love was born.
Love of which we praise, love of which we sing, love of which we are afraid of.
Beings of love sit around round tables, and look at each other with the fear of sharing love.
But stagnant love ceases to be so.
However, there are beings that acknowledge their love, and one of such beings approaches the table without calling for attention, with humility in it's eyes.
It lights the candles.
It serves the food.
And as midnight strucks, the beings of love finally remember who they are.
They praise the good teachers of love, and feast.
Not on the food, but on each other's love.
Oh, if every night they could accomplish such a feat.
