Jingo Lo Ba, Santana.
In the heat of the night, the drums they call,
Echoing through valleys, over hills tall.
“Jingo lo ba,” the rhythm’s cry,
Beneath the moonlit African sky.
Hands on skin, a beat so wild,
Ancient stories told, hearts beguiled.
The dancers leap, their spirits soar,
Feet pounding on the earthen floor.
Firelight flickers, shadows dance,
In a primal, rhythmic trance.
The pulse of life, the heartbeat’s sound,
Jingo’s magic all around.
Faces gleam with sweat and glee,
As bodies move in unity.
The old, the young, all side by side,
In the rhythm of the tribe’s great pride.
“Jingo lo ba,” the chant goes high,
A song of earth, of sea, of sky.
The world in motion, life in tune,
Beneath the watchful, silent moon.
The drumbeat’s power, pure and deep,
Awakens dreams from ancient sleep.
A call to ancestors, near and far,
Jingo’s rhythm, a guiding star.
As morning light begins to glow,
The drummers end their wondrous show.
But in their hearts, the beat remains,
“Jingo lo ba,” within their veins.
So let the drums forever play,
Through night and dawn, to light of day.
For in their sound, we find our way,
Jingo’s spirit, here to stay.
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