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BY RITA SETTON

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I walk along the winding cobblestone roads of my forefathers, 

Absorbing the sights and sounds of my beloved, ancient town. 

The angelic, tinkling laughter of the children cascades through the Old City as they frolic about, Chasing each other through alleyways and jumping over crates. 

Vendors and shoppers haggle over the prices of dates dipped in honey and ruby red pomegranates, 

In the tongue of a nation of warriors of both the fine pen and the iron sword.

The faithful flock to the Western Wall for the afternoon prayer, 

Singing the sacred words in tunes sustained through the afflictions of time.

I walk along the streets of my city, 

And I know that I am home. 

I walk along the banks of the Dead Sea, 

Breathing in the bracing, salty air that caresses my skin and lifts my hair. 

The warm frothy waves lick at my feet, 

And the sunlight gleams on the shimmering, cyan blue of the ocean. 

I feel its warmth embrace me, 

And the wind seems to whisper like a lover, 

“Darling, you are home.” 

From the Golan Heights to the coast of Eilat, 

From the bustling banks of Jaffa to the hills of Hebron, 

Dwells a chosen nation

In a Promised Land. 

When the bright sun rises over Tel Aviv;

When the air seems to reveal the mystical enigmas of the world as it blows through Safed; When Hatikvah plays and reminds us of the hope we held on to for two millennia;

We know that we are home.