Gold stalks of wheat waving gently
in the wind that softly swirls around
the olive trees in the desert.
A golden dome rising high
in the blue sky
with wispy white clouds framing it.
A white pigeon circling round
above my head that is
crying out the name of where I am.
This is Palestine,
my homeland.
Or should I be
more grammatically correct
and say that is was
my homeland (not is).
Because that was before
ruthless invaders
marched in
and took away everything
that meant home.
