Noel, Noel.

The season of new birth;

A wonderful time for my labor has brought forth: a mark of something new has been born.

But year on year, things never change;

My ears are burdened with seasonal greetings,

I am fattened with kindred gifting.

My pocket from the year’s beginning has been burdened;

But in the season at hand, it is burdened and less burdened all together.

Net effect, I need uplifting.


A new season of events which never change.

The winter winds frost the wests’ whiskers and chins.

The eastern sides are drawn to the battles of their own tide.

And the African weather man hovers above men with his white dry garment that leaves trails in dry throats and skins.


Noel, Noel.

I need to rest in sleep.

And to conjure fresh resolution that I wish to keep.

Will that be possible as some things never change?

Me, myself and I is tired.

In this yule, I am tired.

May be something new awaits somewhere in a corner.

But one thing is certain, my labor needs more labor to keep me amber.

Honestly, my yule is tired.



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