Sons of conquest, naked and confused
On torrid desert dunes where chaos reigns
Where bells of holy terror harken news
To crooked beasts, backs surely bent with shame
A prophet mutters softly in his sleep
“Lay down the rifle, face the gospel sands
From Babylon, my people all shall flee
in Canaan’s river, they shall wash their hands”
Mothers speak of birds with iron wings
Diaspora reflected in their eyes
As Joshua throws his voice up high to sing
Moses turned his shackled hands to cry
Condemn the despot, may his statue fall
Close your eyes to graves beneath the wall