In a land where the sun burned bright and fierce,
Christmas came, stripped of its wintry verse.
No snowy lanes, no jingling sleighs,
Just humid skies and motionless days.

No relatives visiting, no plans to cheer,
Only distant carols grazing the ear.
My brother and I, beneath a muted moon,
Swayed to melodies that faded too soon.

Then, from a cobwebbed box, long cast aside,
Mom unearthed memories, her eyes open wide.
A brittle tree, its lights dimmed by time,
Shimmered anew under cotton’s rhyme.

The Taiwanese sparkle, though faint and few,
Brought life to the night, a joy overdue.
Christmas Eve tiptoed, a shadowy guest,
While Christmas Day dawned, putting hearts to the test.

The air brimmed with scents, earthy and sweet,
Pumpkin soup simmering, rice porridge complete.
From our farm’s gifts—turnips, coconuts, and more—
Mom served a feast we couldn’t ignore.

Yet amidst the warmth, a longing stirred,
A festive craving left unmet, unheard.
For turkey’s richness, for cake’s soft bite,
Dreams that lingered in the dusky light.

By the gate, as the shadows grew long,
A figure appeared—unfamiliar, strong.
Santa, with no face, no words, no fame,
Left behind a note and vanished, unnamed.

Clutching the gift, my heart raced fast,
“Mom, Santa came!” I exclaimed at last.
She doubted, she tested, but then gave way,
As I begged to seek a cake that day.

Through silent streets, I pedaled alone,
Shops shuttered, hope nearly overthrown.
Until I found, beneath a flickering sign,
An old man waiting, a cake divine.

Jackfruit-shaped, its glow surreal,
In his eyes, a joy I could feel.
As he packed the last piece with tender care,
I saw his gratitude, raw and rare.

In that moment, roles quietly switched,
I was his Santa, his life enriched.
Returning home, beneath the starlit dome,
The cake became our story’s poem.

Each crumb held love, each bite held grace,
The taste of belonging time cannot erase.
An unusual Christmas, stripped of the grand,
But steeped in the magic of love’s quiet hand.