You are the scattered seed of your wandering father’s
faith, Ishmael and Isaac, brothers one in the bone,
whose hands once traced the same thick dust,
on the same land that stretches from river to sea,
and yet you learned to name each other stranger,
to make the desert into mine and yours,
to let the blood forget what blood remembers.

So listen and heed: under the language of borders,
beneath the smoke that scribes its grief on sky,
there is a home you both know older than any war:
a tent, a meeting place where bread is broken and
where a father’s voice calls both sons home,
not in enmity but as kin, not as strangers,
but as brothers with faces from the same mould.

 

19/4/2026