The Sound of Christmastide - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Cyprus refugees 1974

Swarms of locust
shade the midday sun;

they burn the trees
they devour the dove
they rape the land.

“The Archangel is dead,”
the town crier whimpers.

“Hail the new Archangel,”
he snivels on his knees
and the shadow of a red horse
commands the town.

“His Excellency decrees
you will leave by nightfall,”
the new crier proclaims
to anyone left behind to listen.

I gather my life in a tiny bundle
and make my way to the border.

The road is strewn with the bodies
of young soldiers and medals from
the chests of fleeing heroic generals.

“Why does the sun rise from the west?”
a little boy asks his grieving father.
“I'm cold,” an old man sobs
then he crumbles to the ground and dies.

“Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright

Round you Virgin, Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace”

A mother suckles her wasted child,
but its eyes are full of death,
and from a place far away
we hear the sound of Christmastide.