Israel

Through stone, through fire,

Through sorrow and ire.

He walks — not a saint, but alive.

Israel. A people. No peace, but pride.

He never asked to be chosen — just endured,

When the world burned down, he stitched a future.

Ashes of Europe, sirens scream,

He learned: no one saves you — you redeem.

History’s heavy, hands are rough,

He builds in dust, when hope’s not enough.

Not made of iron, but harder still,

Each scar a hymn, each breath a will.

This is courage — no parade,

Where kids grow up in the shadow of raids.

This is a people — fear’s not their end,

But a ghost that walks beside them, like a friend.

The neighbors shout — he plants his dream,

Blooms in the desert, hope in the seam.

Everything’s fragile, aimed to break,

Still he dances on a landquake.

Women with fire in unblinking eyes,

Soldiers still boys under bullet skies.

Their prayers don’t rise — they burn slow,

Courage is staying, with nowhere to go.

This is courage — no parade,

Where kids grow up in the shadow of raids.

This is a people — fear’s not their end,

But a ghost that walks beside them, like a friend.

Not saints. Not sinless.

But when they fall, they rise — wordless.

Their courage is not loud, not proud,

It grows like roots, deep in the ground.

And if one day the lights go dim,

They’ll still walk on — worn but grim.

As long as one heart still holds the flame —

Israel remains. Israel — the name.