Let the Nativity be kindled once more in the world.
Let Jesus be lit again
in the eyes of children.
Like a runner passing the torch
mid-stride,
I place Christmas now
in the hands of my children.
And let the race go on,
let the flame not die.
I hold against my chest
a rose made of ash.
Give me the gentle warmth
of your innocence,
so I may feel that rose
flower once more inside me.
Children—your hands.
And solitude trembles,
the way an eggshell quivers
when life begins to stir within it.
But the endless night
stands against the briefness of life:
within me I cannot tell
which one intends to last forever.
Let the murmurs cease,
let the ghosts scatter.
The warmth of these hands
around my cold fingers—

is it possible?
The Nativity is kindled again
in our souls.
Jesus is kindled again
in the eyes of my children.

An English language reinterpretation of a poem by David Morão-Ferreira by Diniz Borges