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...