In alleys cold where shadows creep,
Where hearts are heavy, dreams asleep,
A lonely soul, a child, a face—
Christmas feels like a far-off place.

No tree to light, no gifts to share,
No stockings hung with tender care.
Just frigid nights and hunger’s sting,
A season stripped of joy it brings.

In beds where sickness holds its reign,
Through whispered prayers and quiet pain,
The yuletide glow feels faint, unsure,
As time stands still without a cure.

And yet, beyond the glistening halls,
The wreath-clad doors, the banquet calls,
The truth of Christmas softly pleads:
It’s born in love, not gilded deeds.

For every child, a toy should gleam,
A tiny spark, a cherished dream.
For every soul, a gift of cheer,
A gentle hug, a listening ear.

The warmth of meals, the joy they share,
Should circle wide, should show we care.
For Christmas magic, pure and true,
Lives not in things, but what we do.

So let us pause, reflect, extend
Our hands to stranger, foe, and friend.
For Christmas must be shared by all,
The great, the meek, the big, the small.

And in that giving, love will grow,
Its radiant light, a steady glow.
A world united, hearts made whole—
This is Christmas, its truest soul.