How she was young and still with hope,

her skin unbroke by wicked days...

 

eyes that spoke no need of words,

yet sang "Zabur" a thousand ways...

 

her hands that worked the barren soil,

would glide like silk upon his face...

 

though ragged clothes betrayed her toil,

they could not dull her state of grace...

 

and now with streets and markets gone,

the concrete dust of time unstitched,

 

the roar of war can't drown her song,

for those whose lives she so enriched.