The twelfth tribe of Israel, the lost Benjamin: A poem 

I was massacred by the hand of my own land 

But the woman I raped, deserved the kill 

And her husband, priest of Dan, was even more evil 

I was the twelfth tribe of Benjamin, they thought I had sinned 

The sun fell from the sky, the night was a pigsty 

The blood was an ominous dye in the land I wished I’d die 

So, the few of us left, what remained of us yet 

toward the East, where we could start afresh in life and death 

There came with us an Ark; O lost Israel! A spark in Varca, Goa 

We accepted the ruler’s deal that we’d be cast as lowly Sudra 

But we knew craft masonry, artificers in gold, which we are 

Even though our art we forgot, and the candelabra and six-pointed star