My feet roam free, My whisper travel the distance. Such land the Lord Bless me with. The Water is not bitter, the grass grows wild. The Pastures is my to inherit, if the Lord be willing. I'm not a foreigner to thy land. Here, I can sow and reaper, during harvest. When night falls I try to count the descendant of Abraham. Born to thy I was, Die in the land Shall I. Upon the high hill, I see no transgression of man, I can breathe, The breeze is kind to me
Thank Father... For thy land...
Gentle Man
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-reservation/
