Under the Same Sky

Four wrists,

different shades of history,

braided into a circle

that refuses collapse.

...

Skin remembers things

the mouth is trained to soften,

laws inked in separate fountains,

prayers divided by architecture,

borders taught in lullabies.

We were told to stand

on different sides of God.

...

The crescent curves like a quiet question.

The cross stands upright in argument.

A star gathers its sharp light inward.

A wheel turns patiently toward balance.

A line and circle try to rename love.

...

We say coexist

as if it were a command

and not a confession.

Our hands tighten anyway.

Not because we agree,

not because history has apologized,

but because the alternative

is a falling we have memorized too well.

...

In the streets, someone chants.

In another country, someone burns a book.

In another, someone hides one.

The news arranges our differences

like trophies on a shelf.

...

But here in this fragile architecture of wrists,

we practice a smaller revolution:

pulse against pulse,

vein beside vein,

heat traveling where doctrine once refused.

...

No one erases their symbol.

No one folds it away.

It remains visible,

sharp as belief.

...

The circle is imperfect.

Arms tremble.

Trust is not natural,

it is negotiated breath by breath.

Still, we hold.

Not because the world is healed.

Not because the arguments are finished.

But because for one suspended moment,

our weight leans inward

instead of against.

(This poem explores the fragile and demanding reality of coexistence in a world shaped by deep religious and historical divisions. It reflects on unity not as sentimental harmony, but as a deliberate, tense act of holding on to one another despite disagreement, pain, and unresolved history).