Under skies like polished brass, on this Christmas Eve now here,
I weave a song for Adam's sons, with burdens banished from cheer.
For pressures like harmattan's cold wind knifing at my bleeding soul,
Whispering doubts, a serpent's hiss, as dreams begin to roll.

We chase the mirage, coloured bright, of riches, fame, and might,
And trade our peace for shadows cast, in sapa's flickering light.
The gongs of expectation drum, a relentless, urgent sound,
To climb the highest termite mound, where envy stings back aground.

But reckless leaps across this savanna, leave scars upon the hide,
And chasing gazelles in the sun, can leave the spirit dried.
Remember, brother, roots run deep, beneath the baobab's strong shade,
Where stories whispered by the breeze, can save the heart astray.

So breathe the air of ancestors, let wisdom be your guide,
And find the strength in sunlit soil, where hope and patience abide.
For on this holy Christmas Eve, beneath the Milky Way's gentle gleam,
May every Adam find his light, and chase away the phantom's dream.

Let laughter be the guiding drum, and unity the north star,
And share the warmth of hearth and home, no matter how near or far.
For though the weight of life may press, and shadows dance and sway,
Together, brothers, hand in hand, we'll see the dawning day.


© Jed's