Embryo of Us

Somewhere,
where the drone of distant gears
hums faintly for the few,
there echoes a pulse of memory
in dark corners—
where embers glow
and refuse to be extinguished.

Somewhere,
in this truth-forsaken womb
of Mother Earth,
a tender embryo of Us is stirring,
a soft assembly of life
murmuring with intimacy,
open, luminous,
the beginnings of a world not yet known.

As in the womb of Mary,
where a child once stirred
beneath the weight of empire,
so too this trembling hope
takes shape in the margins,
among the lowly and forgotten—
not in lavish estates,
or among the highest seats
of wealth and power,
but in mangers beneath the starry night sky—
tending to the wounds we carry
from the sharp cuts
of a violent lie— you against me.

The top and bottom
are but the equator line
of an eggshell
cracking open
this bright new Earth.

Our embers rise like a chorus of light,
storytellers in the night—
our one communal breath, kindling,
warming our bonds with one another,
gathering strength,
gathering courage,
gathering meaning back
to what we know to be true.

We weep with tears gone dry,
with something more to give,
weaponless peacemakers—
marching into the battlefield of warrior logic,
our banner of felt truth flown high.
We plant our smartphones in the ground.
The call is received.
Vibrations in the soil.
We are stewards,
now redeemed.

Onwards—
with memories of hate behind the door.
Our one communal breath.
Our final tear, now no more.