The forked desert road leads to nowhere.
Each crossroad, each corner of a dusty street
Evokes not the sleepy town of Bethlehem,
But the chaos found in Fullujah or
In the gutted houses of Tikrit,
Along dangerous streets leading to the Green Zone
In the ruins of Baghdad.
Here, hope is born again on Christmas Eve,
Here one may lose one’s life
By the cleverness of a roadside bomb,
While the Magi travel on,
As they always have in the great myth,
Seeking peace, or the truce in one’s aching heart.

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