A day will come
when wanderers of every shore
feel a quiet pull beneath their ribs
a whisper of earth,
a memory of hands that shaped their name.
A day will come
when Indians return to India,
Africans return to Africa,
and Chinese return to China
not from exile,
not from fear,
but because they found the door
that opens to the scent of their mother’s cooking,
the songs their grandparents hummed,
the rhythm their heartbeat always knew.
No hostile fight,
no walls raised against strangers,
no bitterness toward the roads they once walked.
Only the warmth of arrival,
the soft celebration
of stepping into a place
that greets them like sunlight on skin.
For every soul carries a homeland
sometimes close,
sometimes far
a map written in spirit,
waiting to be read.
And on that day,
the world will not grow smaller
but gentler.
Cultures will bloom as gardens do
each returning flower
bringing its color home,
yet still feeding the bees
that travel everywhere.
A day will come
when all people know
that finding home
doesn’t mean losing the world
it means learning
where love began,
and letting it rise again.