In the worst of times, martyrs will march barefooted  into foreign lands  
To toil its earth with flesh and sweat and blood
They jaunt  north to south searching for milk and honey
  and gold coins to put in their empty pockets

They stop to find out that they cannot walk barefooted
For the road is nothing but thorns and hot sand that scorch the feet
The merciless air is aloof and condescending
These people, they suffered
  for their skin cracks in the winter and burns in the rain

Their tongue aches from speaking a different language:
   voices turned into an unfathomable cadence
Frail skin torched like a hot tar to tissue paper
   leaving only blackened soot
They come home with a dry mouth and scarred heart

These heroes will look up above into the cold night sky
   to look for inkling of stars that guided them
For there is nothing sweeter than to bring food back home
To where hungry mouths and empty hands suffer in pain