It is the night of the second candle,
In the home of green Christmases.
In this neighborhood of strangers,
One on either side died this year, of the cursed disease.
No one told me. We do not speak here.
In the land of isolation.
Those I love are my descendants nearby, a sister, a brother and an aunt.
I have others I love. Most, I would not know
on the street if we met somehow.
It's for sure a working class neighborhood.
Tonight I stepped outside just to look.
No wonder mankind has winter holidays.
It would be ghastly indeed, if this were all.
I hope this does not sound down,
It's really not.
I'm just looking up.
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