T'was the Night We Call Christmas

Clement Clarke Moore's famous "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" reshaped a little.

This Christmas, as you tuck into turkey in the safety and comfort of your own home, spare a little thought in this festive season of goodwill to all for those whose Christmas will be just another nightmare.

Listen Here

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, Not even a mouse.
The children lay dying, their parents were dead,
There was no pudding, there was no bread.

Their stomachs distended, their eyes just a glaze,
They’d eaten nothing, nothing for days.
There were no presents, wrapped in a bow,
No crackers to pull, no songs about snow,

The water had gone, the medicine too,
the diarrhea had not, though the spasms were few.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The bottles were slung, on the floor without care,
And stale cigarette smoke hung on the air

The children were quiet, though not asleep,
Even too frightened to cry or to weep.
The mother lay still, and wondered how long
The family would last, she must be strong.

The husband lay still, a heap on the floor,
Drunk and unconscious, yelling no more.
Frustrations suppressed, anger subdued,
Troubles forgotten, till tomorrow renewed.

No Christmas cards hanging, Just bills overdue,
No job and no future, in the dole queue.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The mother lay silent, eyes open wide.
But though she was breathing, there was no-one in side.

The father lay still, in a dreamless sleep,
But soon he would wake again, only to weep.
The knock on the door, that they’d been waiting to hear,
Had filled their hearts to the brim with despair.

Their world lay in pieces, a couple alone,
The daughter they loved, would never come home,
None of their friends, know what to say,
So they leave them to cope, alone everyday.

A road toll statistic, a common enough death,
A line in the paper, a family bereft.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The bombs had all fallen, the night became calm,
And just for a while, no-one did harm.

Even the orphans had fallen asleep,
As images of their parents, danced in their sleep.
A shot echoed somewhere, a cry in the night,
Another dead soldier, to not carry on the fight.

An elderly woman, lies on the floor,
Softly crying, and watching the door.
The moon shining brightly, a ghost in the sky,
Then all of a sudden, a harsh screaming cry.

Bombs crashing, More danger, More Panic, More Killing
Shame on it, Oh stupid, Oh dumber blitzi-krieging.
To the victor, the spoils, to the victor the oils Now dash away, dash away, dash away hope.

And Suicide bombers, light up the sky
And the rest of the world, pretends not to know why.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

And a world celebrating, declined to care.

In Memory of the Tiny

There was not much blood. Small bodies have little blood anyway, but small, starved bodies have less. Or perhaps it just clots quicker.

The tiny lifeless corpse hung on the barbed wire and fried in the sun, with the tiny pool of blood under it congealing like soup. Human soup. And it smelt. And that was perhaps the worst part of it. Because the body, almost inhuman in its tortured form, could be glossed over by the heart but the smell invaded the heart and tore it into a thousand pieces. The smell of death. Young death.

In general, the children were taken and destroyed first, but somehow this one had survived. Perhaps it had been hidden well. Perhaps some incredulous pity had turned the eye of the butchers. It was hard to tell. But it had escaped the furnaces, with its parent. Parent, because gender had died along with compassion when they had entered the camp. The dead have no gender.

But then the mother was taken and the child had tried to follow, tangling itself on the barbed wire. The wire cut and through blood and tears the child had fought, not to free itself, but simply to be with its mother.

And the guards had laughed. Then shot it.

And then they ate their lunch.

And the tiny body hung. And stank. And all those who waited for their own death knew that the end of the world was come. And they named it Auschwitz.