This is home with the cry of a child and playing in the rain.

A place sheltered with love and armoured in truth; a price paid and a legacy that lies in waste.

This is home.

To walk free and be useful.

To sit together by the fireside sharing our own stories and the elderly gray-haired revered as gods among men.

With each fellow unashamed to carry a bundle of firewood to enjoy the heat of the fire,

This is us before each sought for a wall fenced supported by greed, hate and the corruptible heart of menacing holiness.

But for all I can tell, this is home abandoned by her own and it is a grieve crime so great to tell.

The children have left the houses we built in love and I cannot assure sustainability.

They have mixed our codes and songs with strange notes and rhythms.

I cannot identify the drummers and sound birds.

They are all unfamiliar to our dance moves.

They defend their clan, tribe, color, and people.

We have left the drums to dust and I see no one returning with the drumsticks.

The streams of life have become contaminated and I see no one coming back to fetch that cold water bubbling out of the rocks.

We have left the roads that sweetened the long journey and taken to footpaths, we are all running the rat race.

We have stopped shaking hands and we no longer greet a brother by name.

The remnant of hope still exists in tolerance, acceptance, respect, empowerment, and equity.

We can go back to dancing in the rain even with these strange and different raindrops.

When the thunder sounds, the safety of all we can look out for.

By this, we cannot ask who it is. 

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