In the hush of morning, before names reclaim us,
we are only beings – skin woven to muscle, dust braided into longing.
The earth does not see rank or title,
she spins us together as threads in a single, infinite tapestry.
We walk separate roads, worn by differing footfalls,
streets of brilliance and alleys of shadows,
yet dawn touches each brow with impartial fingers.
We kneel for water from the same river,
we bleed red from wounds we thought were private.
Old walls crumble with every shared glance –
no monument outlasts the mingling of laughter,
no border is stronger than the heel of a child chasing light.
Hands, reaching, are bridges – unasked, unmeasured –
finding solace in the rough, familiar shape of another’s grasp.
What is a name, a flag, a coin?
At dusk, we strip these away:
we hunger, we ache, we dream
of being seen and not weighed.
In the shadows and brilliance, side by side,
our differences glow – colours in the same fire.
Beneath the silent counsel of stars,
in the lull between heartbeats,
equality is not a prize nor a gift –
it is the oldest song, remembered when we listen,
insisting in every breath: we rise or fall together,
always, as kin, beneath the sheltering sky.
