My homeland has no borders
And no gates that owners of coloured passports can pass through
With an entry visa that expires on the date of death
An idea that it is pointless to explain
To look for it in official language is in vain
I am the child of chance
Of the holy birth of God’s son
And the whole earth is my home

I am the son of a land that lies far away
From the gas chambers of the Nazis
And from the fatwa of hate law or the curses of the imams
The son of a land that was not overrun
By the crusades,
Nor by Hagana or Boko Haram

My homeland is no arid patch of land without feelings
It does not consist of piles of cash
And wells of black gold
And the curses of civil wars
And the victims of landmines

My mother country is
Where memories of childhood came to an end
When I was ten
Where my work
Was to play
Where it only cost me a smile
To gain a friend

Today it is a place
Where my children can sleep
Without fear of the noise of propaganda
And of wars of religion
And of the thieves of children’s toys