Since all the walls shattered, since they bombed this land,
where will you sleep now, where will you wash, what is your home?
Will you sit in the rubble that once was a street, will you wrap your shawls tighter,
bubble chickpeas in sauce, use bed frames for firewood, is this now your home?
The palm trees still standing, that sway in the rain, the sound of the ocean,
the water that rains in buckets for drinking, is this now your home?
The songs children sing, the clapping adults, the purring of cats,
the siren, the bullet, the beating from soldiers, is all this your home?
I have a house with four walls, that I wish was more infinite,
so I could invite you to rest, to drink water and bathe, and say this is your home.
These words I write may be left on a page, or a screen, in love and in rage.
If you read them and cry, if you read them and smile, say this is your home.
Prayers to Allah, prayers to Jesus, prayers to people, deaf to your calling,
in silence, in speaking, outside in snow, inside in your heart, is this all your home?
I ask of the universe, please, cleave compassion, in dark hearts of men.
Tell them the air that we breathe, the light that we share, this is our home.
—Sol Frye
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