This Poor, Cursed, Holy Land
by Tamir Buchshtav

Thousands in the ground lie sleeping,
Thousand mothers red eyed, weeping,
A hefty crop, and Death's still reaping,
The fields of the holy land.

In the eyes of all ’tis sacred,
Filled they're hearts with seething hatred,
To this holy war they're fettered,
The fight for the holy land.

Centuries of war torn madness,
Centuries of grief and sadness,
Spiced with a berserk like madness,
To die for the holy land.

Smells of powder, blood and smoke,
Sour sweat the nostrils choke,
Spiral up to Him who spoke,
To name this holy land.

For the blessing has gone awry,
Spawned this ever painful story,
Of those fighting for the glory,
Of this poor, cursed, holy land.