The morning breathes in sacred hues,
Where dawn drips gold on silken dews.
From shadowed paths, the spirits wake,
The crossroads hum, the heavens quake.
In the cradle of a southern breeze,
Whispers curl through the ancient trees.
The Mississippi’s song rides low,
A rhythm only the wise ones know.
Oh, sunrise born of charm and root,
With power steeped in earth’s pursuit.
Candles flicker, soft prayers ascend,
Time and magic gently bend.
The soil remembers; the moss still sways,
Carrying echoes of elders’ praise.
Salted tears and moonlit jars,
Guide the weary under star-lit scars.
Rise, sweet sun, on holy ground,
Where roots of hope and love are found.
In this light, all paths align—
A hoodoo blessing, pure, divine.
Thee Juju Aura 