The world sharpens its teeth
on the bones of the forgotten—
I see it through frost-covered glass,
where the red ribbons choke the trees,
where the lights blind us to what’s really here.
A joy sold, a kindness wrapped in plastic,
and everyone is clapping—
but no one is listening.

In the streets, the hunger of animals
bites the air, their voices swallowed
by the roar of engines and want.
Hands clutch at what they cannot hold,
eyes glazed with a hunger deeper than flesh.
This is not a feast,
this is the gnashing of wolves.

We tear each other open with smiles,
draped in the costumes of goodwill,
while beneath, we are all knives—
cutting through the flesh of the earth,
through the hearts of one another.

There is no savior in these silent nights,
just the cold breath of greed
and the quiet scream of things unseen.
How quickly we forget
what we’ve never learned to love.

And we’re nothing in this Christmas story—
no angels, no stars, no magi bringing gifts,
just shadows beneath the falling snow,
whispering promises we never meant to keep.

The earth trembles beneath our feet,
but we dance, oblivious,
as if the flames were festive.
The world burns,
and we call it warmth.

Lucija Lotus Mlinarič