The Cave of the Patriarch
In the land of Abraham,
the warriors are plowing the pastures
with guns and knives and vengeful swords.
The soldiers are tainting the temples
with blood and bones and sinful words.
Their legions are rifling the skies,
as they grimly soar on winds of vice.
Their squadrons are killing the clouds,
as they fly with dread on wings of rage.
Their battalions are choking the fields,
as they lay barren the fruits of justice.
Their raiders are stifling the guilds,
As they quell the flame of eternal truth.
What tears were wept at their mother’s death!
Where now is their dirge of grief?
What cries were heard at their mother’s grave!
Where now are the hymns of life?
The slayers are poisoning the flowers
in fiendish waves of perversity’s plague.
The butchers are razing the bowers
with the scourging flames of malevolent fire.
The intruders are trampling the grain,
as they march to the beat of dismal drums.
Their columns are crushing the eggs,
as they prowl to the toll of mournful bells.
Their lancers are cleaving the ears
of infants they rape with tongues of wrath.
Their brigades are blighting the dreams
of children they maim with tongues of scorn.
What somber storms was their father’s shroud!
Where now are the foes of darkness?
What sadness a father bears into death,
where brothers forget the Champion of Light?