Little black tents the wombs of the night

The Bedouins, refugees from other times

The places were they live are still the same

But other people founded States and took

The deserts where they roamed ,ancestral nooks.

Ther little tents of black on the hillsides

Have not changed from Mediaeval times

But now they are like flies, unwanted guests

Who will know the tremor in their breasts?

Cruel is the heart of humankind,

The Commandments spat on daily by men blind.

The Bedouins of our spirit need to be

Allowed their space, allowed their deserts free

Nomads of the desert,Jesus Christ,

Nomad of the darkness in our minds

I welcome comments and criticism

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