We are not promised harmony,
for it is a construction that
we must work for in the hand to hand,
in the face to face,
across the broken language of borders,
in the creed against creed,
in the old order of severance that repeats
like prayers no god can answer.

This planet turns a single blue page
in the black unwriting of space,
and we are the only the words it holds,
every fractured syllable of us,
every dialect of longing,
every mouth that tries to speak the
dialogue of goodwill without
demanding the speaker kneel,
with no divine footnote,
no errata sheet from elsewhere.

Peace is not the lack of fracture
but the decision to sit inside it,
together,
to listen across the fault lines and
meaning shifts,
to desire accord
not with the closed fist of doctrine
but with the open palm that says
I am here,
and you are here,
we see each other,
and there is nowhere else,
no other page,
no other planet,
just us,
resolved.

This is difficult grace:
that connection is not agreement but presence,
that sitting with the stranger’s fire warms
the same bitter cold,
that we orbit the same average star and are,
each of us,
all together,
the other’s only country now,
the only promised home.

 

29/3/2026