Myths are our immortal mentors,
Each a sculptor of the heart,
Residing at life's moral center,
Reigning long through love and art.
Years and generations pass,
Christmas lovingly passed on.
Holidays are made to last,
Renewing what might else be gone.
Inevitably, passions pale,
Souls turn skeptical, and yet
The tales of childhood prevail,
Myths too vivid to forget.
Adults might still, or not, believe
Stories whose lost glow they grieve.