Mithra

In the dark of the morning, while the stars barely glisten in their sparkly final dances and the moon begins its change into an opaque crescent, a tiny hand peeks out of a mossy bedding. The hand’s owner flutters an eye open, only for brief moment, and listens to a few improvisational notes sung by an an early bird. “Trane,” he mumbles to nobody in particular and nods off again — back to dreams of alligators and giant surprise eggs.

Unknown to this little creature of great interest, the world is already awoken and ready to celebrate the greatest of days: the day of his birth.

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