A part of you lives in this hurting heart of mine,

Seeking your sweet spirit, oh beloved Palestine.

With deep longing to gift you the old olive vine,

And envelop your entirety with love, to enshrine.

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By where, what and when are you dully defined?

Holy, glory and eternity, yet pierced by their tine.

Savage, sacrilegious souls, so wretched and blind, they cannot even hide, the jovial joy

they indulge in the carnage of apartheid.

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Everything massacred, your beds to dust, in Sheikh Jarrah, the woeful child, his world void

of colour in Gaza. I ache in your name, oh my once beloved Qiblah, but you will soar above

their plots oh beloved Al Aqsa. And your grandeur will shine, for I have hope in your Lord

and mine, the King of all Kings, our beloved Allah.