In the morning a father stands in the doorway
His eyes anxiously inviting the dawn
a nervous frown on his face as he scans all he can see
the city, the ocean, the fields…
And as he stares, he begins to hum under his breath..
an impatient murmur that tumbles into a chant
and finally swells into a whispered song
“come home, my daughter, my son, my love
come home my child, come home.”
In the afternoon a brother slides through the streets
through hidden doorways, up secret alleyways,
determined, streetwise and strong
And as he runs, he grabs the hand of each
dirty, skinny, shabby child he finds and staring into their
face smiles and presses a letter into their hand.
Then looking around,
making sure he won’t be heard by the soldiers on the corner
whispers in their ear
“Come home my daughter, my son, my love,
come home my child come home.”
As evening falls and shadows lengthen
the house grows cold and drafty.
And as the shadows become the creeping dark
the houses around slam windows, block doors
and lock themselves tight.
But this door is not shut.
This door is never shut.
The bright burning fire casts its glow out onto the street
and the fields, and the ocean.
The smell of fresh bread and hot soup escapes and drifts on the breeze.
And in the deepest moment of the darkest night
by this door a mother stands,
Her keen eyes lighting up the slumbering world
Her warm voice carrying strong her song.
She smiles as she hears her children snoring and shifting behind her in their sleep.
But there are more children in the fields, on the ocean, in the streets,
So many, so hungry and so alone.
And there is room in her house for so many more.
And there is bread and soup enough for all
and so she sings into the night
“Come home my daughter, my son, my love.
Come home my child come home.”