In their tents, they mourn the loss of their land
and silent sorrow is death's deep refrain,
broken now and scattered but still, they stand.
As memories are lost like steps in sand,
those that are not lost are shrouded in pain.
In their tents, they mourn the loss of their land.
Wealth to poverty; soldier to farmhand:
they work hard and try to hide the great strain,
broken now and scattered but still, they stand.
Noble still, they try to now understand
how to accept the loss of all the slain.
In their tents, they mourn the loss of their land
Time moves yet their thoughts try to underhand
fragments of solace from those who are ordained
broken now and scattered but still, they stand.
Small comforts accepted; bigger things planned
as hope blooms, drawing in light and the rain.
In their tents, they mourn the loss of their land
broken now and scattered but still, they stand.