By Izzah Husna
I
O, Mother, how have they torn your limbs?
And stolen from you, your name?
Hell, would they ever cease if the Sun dims?
As they turn your womb into graves without shame?
This the land that God has bestowed his grace,
This the land watered with tears – no, with blood,
The blood of children holding onto the shield of prayers.
But it is their land, their home, their rightful place,
And they stood, tiny hands gripping onto a rock decorated with mud,
You see, it was a piece of their house – no, concrete in layers.
II
O, warriors, those restless dawns, not greeted by the chirps, but a boom!
Yet you rests your forehead on the ground in tranquillity,
God gazes upon you and the Angels with their wings, form a room,
There, gathered with you in the space, a glimpse of eternity.
There, you break free from the rhyme orchestrated by traitors,
And not a song to be heard, none but the recitation of a scripture,
With a voice so soft it shook the ground beneath, to the beat of a war song.
A sweet release from the anxious whispers, for you have known the story,
For you have known the victory that is marching through time, awaiting its moment,
For your heart has been filled with faith and it pumps into your veins.
III
O, my dearest; fathers, mothers and children alike, this promised land is ours.
O, love, we are home. We are home. We are home.
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