I see you standing on the hill,
a babe swaddled in your arms.
I see your tears that wash her clean
of violence and harm.  

Let me be her bower bird and bring
flowers for her hair,
let me cover her in rushes to
protect her skin so fair.  

I will call my friends the weavers
to craft a cradle for her grave.
and when the sun sets on the mourners
and marks her earthly days,
we will hear the falcons keening,
circling the sky, 

reminding all the world
our dream will never die.  

And each and every night thereafter
as we remember by the sea,
we will dare to dream
the dream of truth: 

That Palestine Will be free.