The Magic of Santa’s Quill

In a workshop nestled far from sight,

Where the Arctic dances with Northern Light,

There sits a desk of timeless wood,

Where Santa crafts all things good.

The room hums soft with elfin cheer,

For Christmas Eve is drawing near.

A fire crackles, the hearth burns bright,

As Santa begins his task tonight.

He lifts a quill, not plain or slight,

But forged of starlight, feathered in white.

A relic old as time can tell,

Infused with magic, a sacred spell.

The parchment spreads, vast as the seas,

To hold the names borne on winter's breeze.

With a flourish swift, the quill takes flight,

Dancing like snowflakes in the night.

It writes of hopes, of dreams untold,

Of children brave, and hearts of gold.

Each name it pens, a story weaves,

Of those who laugh and those who grieve.

For Santa knows each soul by heart,

Their struggles, joys, their every part.

The quill moves fast, it does not pause,

It lives to serve a noble cause.

Through icy winds and frosted moors,

The elves bring whispers to his doors.

"She's been kind," they softly say,

"He shared his lunch just yesterday."

And so the list grows, line by line,

A tapestry of the divine.

Not measured by riches, toys, or fame,

But by the love behind each name.

The naughty list, though short and sparse,

Holds lessons learned, not judgment harsh.

For Santa’s quill, with gentle care,

Writes room for growth, for hearts to repair.

When the list is done, the ink runs dry,

Santa looks up at the starry sky.

He whispers a prayer, both humble and true,

"May this Christmas bring light to all who pursue."

The quill is placed in its sacred stand,

As elves prepare the sleigh by hand.

With gifts and love, the world to fill,

All thanks to the magic of Santa’s quill.

And as he soars through the silent night,

A beacon of hope in the soft moonlight,

The quill’s work lingers, its magic profound,

In every heart, its spirit is found.