The rain seeps through this ill-thatched hut that calls itself distinct.
Joy stepped its way through mud and clay, she looked upon and blinked;
The guttering flame dark became, the drone flew high above,
A curtain torn on windy morn, a spoken word thereof;
O changing wind, please sing again and never ask me why
Devoid of fear, alone this year, Truth cannot help but sigh.
Calmly and with peace of mind Seraphim point the way,
I wake and touch the face of God on this my living day.
Leftwing-Christian.net
River to Sea
Uprooted Palestinian 
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