I was born in captivity,
But on my father’s knee
I heard tales of the homeland:
The land of the jubilee.
I’ve grown, bones stretching,
Skin pulled like a warm coat
On muscles enabling my motion,
But it is never my abode.
I’ve grown inside
The old man’s memories:
The temple at dawn,
The new moon revelries,
The smell of the altar
And the song of the dove
Smoldering and yearning for a home
I’ve seen nothing of,
And it is burning
Always blazing in the pitch black
When the old men said goodbye,
Over the strong, unbroken backs
Of their captors.
The flames of utter destruction
Dancing on stolen bronze,
The silver and gold abductions,
Flickering with screams
Wails of sorrow from the feeble
The sole survivors stumbling through
The blood of their own people,
The clatter of armored enemy.
I’ve seen it all in their eyes,
Heard it in mournful sobs
And whispered lullabies.

In captivity, I cannot know
Does any stone still stand,
Or smolder, or smoke, or can
We ever find our homeland again?
I face my home, which can’t be seen,
And turn my back to where I’m sent.
I praise the God of Just and Merciful
I pour my heart out: I Repent.