My failing eyes catch the Christmas sparkle
in a plastic snowflake held by my child
which he uses to bang on the drums, wild
fearless of the veil and the whip’s crackle.

While he’s off to sleep, I battle with words
which live in the space between mind and screen,
and jostle with demons genteel, serene
that chirp in my gut like a thousand birds.

Rodrigo, el hijo de mis sueños,
shall I live with them for your comfort’s sake?
Or should I break the trap, escape and take
pride in our stock, which evades all dueños?

Each silent light shining in the darkness
ancestrally quivers with pride regardless.