This Native Land

Do strains of music stop at the border's edge?

What of the wind
of the rain
of the sun

and its healing rays
shining down
on the Mother,
this native land?

A nomad's foot pauses
on the cartographer' s line
between nations.

Does the soil
feel foreign to the heel
but home to the toe,

or does he walk on,
one horizon
one world outstretched?

These imaginary borders
we bump into
on our way to somewhere else

cut us off from each other,
the fractured allegiance
to flags of different colors.

There is peace,
there is plenty,
there is the single strand

our tribal nature weaves,
unravels,
reweaves again

to the rhythm
of the native drums
the calling out

the calling home
to brothers and sisters
of the Mother,

this native land.