I hear an ancient inner beckon,
A reckoning with destiny and time;
Distant desires awaken a sacred song inside me
Shaking off the sheath of forlorn longing,
Shattering the battered shell of my calloused cocoon.
Yet the moon reflects the echoes of my treasured promise,
Measured innings that mark the cycles of my exile;
And in the whisper of the autumn nights I hear the call —
Spiced by tender smells of my heart's betrothal.
With broken wings I heed the pleading summons
Boldly daring to brave the frightful flight ahead;
And while the wind suspends my nascent spirit,
I glide the currents of the stream with seamless soaring.
With mustard faith I trust unerringly the hallowed route
Etched indelibly on the sacred annals of my paneled heart;
And like a homing pigeon destined with Patriot precision,
My spirit "locks in" on my Beulah Land where I belong,
The tents of my inheritance —
My "gift of G-d," my unseen refuge – my only home.
– by Jonathan Allen