Nostalgic Christmas.. Poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi

When the turkeys are roasted in Indian ghee,
the fragrance of its melting fat knocks the nostrils,
The home made batter becomes the sweet,
smelling fruit cake, salivating the tongue,

The town dwelling baker's untiring oven,
gulp all those that put in its orange mouth,
what a wonder it is, whatever that is undergone,
a fire bath, turns out to be very pure and delectable,

It has become the common breeze, when the bells ring,
though the frequency is very different, not hated at all,
The morning middle eastern verses from the speakers,
rushed into our ears, mounted on the heads of our saviors,

The bell boys of the altar wear the starched frocks,
a few of them are my classmates, whom I admire,
They hold the candle stands and incense cans,
follow the priest as the sheep to be sleepy and yawn,

at every midnight prayer, the Harmonium plays,
my little heart breaks as ice as I can't be a bell boy,
Grand are those who stand in the middle as the alloy,
we are taught to love, not using any scripture as the tools.