I can almost smell it, fear
in the mind of a little King,
lost to the unceasing taunts
that a Jew would rule -
the One they came to see -
when the beast, at last, ordered
his indiscriminate slaughter.
 
I would cry as anyone
dreaming of towering camels
and scouts and regal Arabs
ranging into Bethlehem
for an Infant, without court,
saved from that massacre
when they did not return.
 
And I hear the bells shaking
throughout the endless train
of experts checking the route
and slaves guarding the sap
only to see their confusion
at the emptiness of the place;
in those wretched eyes of Herod.
 
And I almost smell the myrrh
and have to catch my footing
when the chest of gold opens,
and listen to tough warm sounds
from the huge beastly bellies
and then to the gracious Mary,
in the corner, abandoned to Hope.