On Christmas Eve, when the moon shone bright, The world lay still, wrapped in the quiet of night. But through the streets, unseen by most, Moved a figure, light as a ghost.
The Saint Salticlaus, with eight nimble legs, Leapt through the shadows, his movements like threads. Not bringing presents, but something more true— He came to decorate homes with a gift few knew.
He visited each house, wrapping them tight In webs made of silver, a shimmering light. No sticky traps, but delicate lace, Sparkling like stars in a cold, quiet space.
One small house, tucked at the end of the street, Had no lights, no wreaths, no decorations neat. So the Spider Saint entered, his heart full of care,
And spun his soft webs, filling the air.
‘
As dawn’s first light kissed the windowpane, The family returned, feeling something strange— The house was alive with a glow so bright, A gift left behind in the quiet of night.
“Who did this?” they wondered, their voices amazed. And in their hearts, a feeling was raised: That Christmas is more than the gifts we can buy— It’s the love that we share, the joy we supply.
The Salticlaus’s work, so gentle and small, Brought the true spirit of Christmas to all.
In each sparkling thread, in each shimmering line, He left a reminder: love is divine.