Best wishes! Merry Christmas!
The city gets ready to welcome the son of consumption –
Donating avalanches of shit in paper and coins;
Stifling the Son of God
And his gentle, humble arrival.
Like crowds of mad old sheep
The people reach the stables of evil:
Shops, stalls, the huge shopping centers.
Like evil magi , ever ready to offer false blessings.
People look at the invisible child who was never alive,
In anyone’s heart.
Souls petrified by the fossil shit of their consumerist interests
Leaving the corpse of the baby Jesus wrapped in toxic plastic bags,
In the chill of the last shopping center
Smothered by their greedy wishes and fake smiles,
All so effort fully spewed out.
We are killing Jesus, even before he’s coming into the world!
We are blinded by streaking comets of head-lights
in the long nauseating queues of cars on the streets
Wrapped in a poisoned light – sour lemon lights,
Bitter honey-coloured motorway lights.
Between the curses and the insults of the market coffers
His holy corpse lies motionless.
Jesus the Son of God, is welcomed by human beings as the son of the money
By a people who shit out their sleazy desire to give in order to receive.
The Spirit of Christmas is now only on the bottom of a glass
Of drunkards who use Jesus as an excuse to lurch down a road
Leaving their imprint on the clean snow of the landscape’s purity,
Smearing with vomit the sacred whiteness of the true Christmas.
Jesus will be born already dead –
To become a river of food on tables all over the world,
Filling fat bellies and hungry and greedy mouths.
Jesus will be born without life to satisfy the pleasure of corporations,
Jesus will be born already a cadaver, drowned by sin and by the lurking falsehoods
In the lap of eternity.
Jesus will be born already dead, to give life to the whims of the people;
To give life to a series of masks from static smiles, fake and glacial smiles.
That hide even more terribly the true face of every human-inhuman –
The restrained face of any person who uses the poor baby Jesus
As a spirit-shield to take shelter from the blackened souls
With which many, too many, arm themselves so terribly every day, every moment
And even more so at Christmas, the day of the true death of the Son of God.
Pics and poem: Elena Caldera
English translation: Heathcote Williams