December approaches and once more the forgotten ones will have only God to warm their souls...

The homeless found in a dark alley
a wet and smelly empty carton box,
and, as beggars cannot be choosers
it would be for a night, his home.

Wind had been taking on strength,
coming all the way from the north,
maybe from the land God gave Cain
to feel the pain that come with snow.

Every Christmas eve he could remember
the air was filled with that kind of odor,
of fresh cut pine and roasting turkey,
of family around the table…warm.

If he had a box of matches, one by one
he could light them, until he had no more,
but they would had put bright stars
on his eyes to make as vivid the illusion.

But even if he had a lonely last match,
couldn’t light it with fingers hard with frost,
so, no matches, just rest his head back,
and maybe merciful Santa would come.

A piece of bread was in his pocked
with the company of a very little onion,
to eat in celebration of the little boy
from Belen that will be here tomorrow.

The homeless never saw the angels coming,
nor felt their hands taking away his sorrows,
he just felt a beautiful elation on his dream
as his soul, from his Shepherd, was called.

December, the last month of the year,
when the stables with the little one born
at last came, but nobody saw in an alley
a star burning from an unlighted match
in a frozen hand by the shadows.