From desert sands to frozen skies,
Across the lands where minarets rise,
A sacred echo gently falls—
The call of Aidiladha reaches all.
In Mecca’s heart, the pilgrims tread,
With humble steps where prophets led,
Their chants ascend in fervent praise,
Through ancient stones and sunlit haze.
But far beyond the Kaabah’s walls,
Another chorus softly calls—
From islands green to bustling towns,
In every tongue, in every gown.
The faithful gather, young and old,
In cotton white, in robes of gold,
No throne, no crown, no rank, no race—
But hearts aligned in sacred grace.
The knife is drawn, the beast laid low,
Not for hunger, nor for show,
But for a pact with God above—
A gesture of trust, obedience, love.
And while the flesh is shared with care,
Among the poor, the lost, the bare,
The greater gift is one unseen:
The soul made humble, pure, and clean.
In homes adorned with lantern light,
Families feast through peaceful night,
Yet pause between the joy and cheer,
To honour what they hold most dear.
For Ibrahim once dared to stand,
With trembling heart and steady hand,
To give what none would dare to give,
So faith—not fear—might truly live.
O Aidiladha, day of light,
You bind the world in sacred rite,
You teach that love is found in pain,
That sacrifice is never vain.
From east to west, your truth remains:
That God is One, and in His name
We rise as one, from every shore,
To serve, to share, to ask no more.
So let the takbir rise again,
Through mountain pass and crowded train,
For Aidiladha is not just a day—
It is a path, a soul’s pure way.
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