From ancient lands, a story told,
Of olive branches, brave and bold.
Palestine, a name that cries,
Beneath the weight of tear-filled skies.
Her fields once green, now scarred and torn,
Her people scattered, hearts forlorn.
A longing echoes, deep and low,
For peace to bloom, and seeds to sow.
The walls they rise, a painful sight,
Dividing families, day and night.
But hope remains, a flickering flame,
A dream of freedom, whispered name.
Through hardship borne and struggles faced,
A resilient spirit, interlaced.
With love for land and ancient lore,
They yearn for peace, and nothing more.
From distant shores, the voices call,
For justice, fairness, for one and all.
May peace descend, like gentle rain,
And heal the wounds, and ease the pain.
Sehrab Sathoo