Our land is a peasant woman
coming home from the fields
with a bundle on her head.
Home?
Where angry vultures wheel
over the rooftop and threaten to lunge?

The South grasses wet with dew
and rains of those who’s lost their few.
Sands of the North soaked in ink-
-Life ink.

Her sons and daughters can’t be put to sleep,
their corpse left to be viand for hungry vultures.

When shall the flute of peace begin to echo under our skies?
When shall the light of friendship illuminate our borders?
When shall the son and the prophet drink from the chalice of love?

There’s commonness in our differences,
a grey to our black and white.
We can’t see it
since the biting winds of intolerance keep the dust in our eyes.

Our land is beautiful,
Let her come home.

First published on Facebook on 2013-10-08 at this link.