Hints of happiness are all around you,
Alive within the sentiment for sale.
Perhaps because the holidays surround you,
Placed ubiquitously, their passions pale.
Yet truth is often smothered in cliché,
However lean and healthy simply broiled.
One can love the rituals of the day,
Lingering over what cannot be spoiled.
In Hanukkah, in Christmas, and in New Year's,
Delight is ancient, having long survived,
Antidote for what had been true fears,
Yearnings for a sun each year revived,
Shining wanly on a land that died.