From the weathered stones and time-trod clumps of earth
rises a call, call of a soul.
From the bustling channels of light and souls,
from the veins of pumping life,
rises a call, the call of a nation.
From the crevasses between the bricks, buildings and towers and houses and streets,
comes the call of a land, a land aching for her People.
From the wreckage of a bus, from the fresh mounds in a tranquil garden
the call has the ragged voice of agony, of hot-edged pain, of turbulent tumbles of crashed expectations and hopes.
From the ancient stones of a wall that's bigger than it seems
the call of the people arrives, profound in its aching, its searching, its yearning.
From the parks and playgrounds,
the call is comfortable in its bliss and safe jubilant exultation,
in the growth and sprouting of the fresh life, open doors of young opportunity.
From the south comes the sound
of blasting and a never-stopping juddering vibration,
a buzzing of terror fills their minds, clutches at their souls.
From the deepest loneliest parts of the souls of the people
comes a call, a quietened, desperate call,
a call to something beyond their beings, beyond what they are prepared to believe,
a call to connect to fill the empty watery womb
that surrounds them in its disquieting quiet.
From the heavens, or from the echoes of years passed by
comes the call of a woman, a mother, a sister:
soul-wrenching sobs, fresh in their bitter burning, today as always.
The heart-shuddering tears of anguished love,
of longing for the peace of her children, her dear beloved children.
And no-one can comfort her, no-one can dry her face from its rivers of salty tears:
not until her children come back, not until her land will rejoice in its celebrated filling,
not until her prisoners return home, until the people is complete,
until the land bears the treads of its long-beloved nation,
until our mouths will be filled with laughter,
until we gather in our tear-sown harvest
with the joy of coming home.
rises a call, call of a soul.
From the bustling channels of light and souls,
from the veins of pumping life,
rises a call, the call of a nation.
From the crevasses between the bricks, buildings and towers and houses and streets,
comes the call of a land, a land aching for her People.
From the wreckage of a bus, from the fresh mounds in a tranquil garden
the call has the ragged voice of agony, of hot-edged pain, of turbulent tumbles of crashed expectations and hopes.
From the ancient stones of a wall that's bigger than it seems
the call of the people arrives, profound in its aching, its searching, its yearning.
From the parks and playgrounds,
the call is comfortable in its bliss and safe jubilant exultation,
in the growth and sprouting of the fresh life, open doors of young opportunity.
From the south comes the sound
of blasting and a never-stopping juddering vibration,
a buzzing of terror fills their minds, clutches at their souls.
From the deepest loneliest parts of the souls of the people
comes a call, a quietened, desperate call,
a call to something beyond their beings, beyond what they are prepared to believe,
a call to connect to fill the empty watery womb
that surrounds them in its disquieting quiet.
From the heavens, or from the echoes of years passed by
comes the call of a woman, a mother, a sister:
soul-wrenching sobs, fresh in their bitter burning, today as always.
The heart-shuddering tears of anguished love,
of longing for the peace of her children, her dear beloved children.
And no-one can comfort her, no-one can dry her face from its rivers of salty tears:
not until her children come back, not until her land will rejoice in its celebrated filling,
not until her prisoners return home, until the people is complete,
until the land bears the treads of its long-beloved nation,
until our mouths will be filled with laughter,
until we gather in our tear-sown harvest
with the joy of coming home.
