By Ernest Skinner
As Melissa’s rage consumes the sky,
And winds like banshees wail and cry,
Hold fast, Jamaica, though the night
Has swallowed every fading light.
The green that draped your hills in pride
Is bent and broken, cast aside.
The sea, a monster, climbs the shore,
And answers to the tempest’s roar.
But remember Gilbert, long ago,
The strength you found when winds did blow.
This darkest hour, a new test sent,
To prove your spirit is not spent.
For in your bones, the rhythm beats
Of drum and fire, and bittersweet
Triumphs of a long-fought past—
The strength of people who hold fast.
When the eye of the storm is still,
And silence settles on the hill,
Do not give in to empty dread,
But lift your gaze from what is dead.
For in the rubble, seeds will rest,
To flower after nature’s test.
And from the wreckage, hands will rise,
To build beneath the clearing skies.
The water that tore through the land
Is nourishment in your own hand.
The salt-spray air, though harsh and cold,
Will tell a story, brave and bold.
So gather close, and hold a light,
And share your stories in the night.
You are not lost, you are not alone,
For in this trial, your strength is known.
With every nail and every board,
Another future is restored.
With every tear and every prayer,
A stronger nation you will share.
For on this rock, you stand and rise,
Beyond the fury in the skies.
A brighter sun, a golden dawn,
Jamaica, you will not be gone.
