A place once plagued by rolling hills and

flowering roses as far as the eye can see,

now taken over by bombs frolicking through the sky

where doves used to fly.

A garden, once a symbol of peace, hope and faith,

now a desert floor scattered with bodies

only showing the pain and the struggle of a people

still holding on to the last shred of hope they have left,

from being broken down close to their very end.

Yet, these people celebrate year after year

this place and its message; what it once was, not what it has become.

These people are resilient. Beaten down again and again.

Tormented and tortured by governments and their fellow man.

But they love, and fight for a basic human right given to all man, but only recognized by some.

These people remember this place and it’s message of peace

holding it close to their hearts

as they fight not with fists

but with pens, markers, ink, paper and words.

Using their words, and the words they have been given by this Man, in this place.

And as the tears roll down their faces, they remember what this place has become.

But just as the sun begins to set, in the distance they see,

the nightingale of paradise, returning to this place.