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.