Under the soft gaze of the stars,
The border was of no consequence,
Malawian or Mozambican,
Like all avaricious lines,
Once drawn in Berlin.
The might of these mountains
sing through the ages,
Into languid winds
that kiss the lakes & oceans
and whistle through acacias
before dancing with the sands.
I leap into this nocturnal canvas
with a palette of questions.
Do we not enliven
the wounded fragments in our minds?
Draw them upon maps,
Upon flags and build brands of belief?
Paint enemies to rail against
in a violent struggle for significance?
Are we not threads in the fabric of the universe,
Lulled into discontent through perception
of some inferior 'sameness' ?
Driven by reptilian fear,
are our minds not knives?
Is it not our capacity to choose compassion
that renders our violence so tragic?
Alas the cast of this night,
Have not the eyes for our lines,
nor the need for the tangles of thought.
There are only endless invitations
to a symphony of being.