I’m the son of the olive trees
Open fields singing for rainfall
I’m a reflection of harvest season
Wheat, olives, and the old wall
I’m the son of the headscarf
And a language of poetry
Like the sun in the middle of the sky
My land is heated; war and crime
But Home lays safe within me
I’m the kite maker, simple and fast
I’m the little boy running around the sheep
Making noise, watching Taeta sing and weep
I’m the mountain side, built to hold a sign of hope
Saying Salam, Shalom…Peace
I am who no one knows
My skin tone tells of war
Childhood memories dipped in teargas
All alone, still smiling
Picturing the old hut and the hilly road
Dear God, I miss home
When will the pain show restraint and hold?
My mother carries the stars and sings for the end of war
How can it be?
A million years reflected in her smile
Beneath her feet lay the world’s biggest fear
A future of forever missing children
I am the mud house
Witnessing children waiting for the return home…
The return of home
I will never forget bombed homes, stolen lives, and missing hopes
Will the day come when the sun will tell its story of me and peace?
Ma rah Ansa (Never Forget)