By NEHAL SHEKHAWAT
“Dear Santa Claus,
For centuries you’ve been keeping alive,
The magic of wonder in little wanderlust eyes.”
A magical time of the year arrives,
With distant bells echoing through silent skies,
Casting a spell –
Colouring the canvas in golden, green and red,
Wonder filled eyes waking up to the sight,
Of a winter wonderland.
During that time of the year,
when the air is filled with a jolly cheer,
The flame of faith is ignited in the hearts of little ones –
To greet an old man named ‘Saint Nicholas’.
“I wonder you might need a partner in your jolly crime –
Of breaking into houses, sneaking down the chimneys at midnight.
You, who bring joy to millions,
Sit alone at the edge of the world,
Where snow never melts, and silence is a permanent guest.
I wonder, do you ever catch a cold?
Unwilling to ruin the magic,
You mask your sore throat, with a hearty “ho, ho, ho””.
But one quiet year they come to know,
A secret traded, careless and bold,
People begin to spread neat little lies,
To fix in their heads what’s real and wise.
The truth stings hard, on innocent hearts,
Like a lightning strike, leaving them in utter disbelief,
To lose something in an instant, they held onto so dearly.
Imagination slaughtered, dented Faith, Trust and Belief.
The spirit flickers dim and drawn,
Family dinners and get togethers –
Remain all that Christmas stands for,
With the magic lost and the spirit gone.
“I write to tell you this –
Amidst the disappearing magic,
I still believe,
And wish to follow in your footsteps,
I’ll carry forward your torch of goodness,
And guide the little ones to a path of happiness,
And help the magic live again.”
He’s an old man who lives across the street,
Orphaned by his own children indeed,
Yet he picks up his red coat, every Christmas –
To bring joy to the faces of orphaned children.
He steps out, with an unsaid vow to save,
Whatever little wonder still remains.
No doubt he’s a man with a heart of pure gold,
Bearing gifts wrapped in hope,
So that the flame of Faith, trust and Belief,
Stays burning,
The very flame that once flickered out too early,
In his own home, abruptly.
“Dear Santa,
Every Christmas, I’ve written you these letters –
Each year with a smaller handwriting, but a growing passion.
Now I’m ready to carry forward your business.
Mr. Kris Kringle,
Wishing you a very, merry Christmas.
Yours dearly,
Noelle.”