Boundaries are exploding.
Lines once drawn disappear
in a hail of wind.
The sand is alive and talking,
telling tales of triumph and woe.
There is, or was, a wall
where I once pressed my forehead
against an unforgiving book written
in the script of heaven’s rage.
Now, outside the temples,
in the cities, in the hills
a new history is foreseen,
written by martyrs
whose fingers speak in tongues.
There are new psalms to sing,
mountains to climb, seas to part,
valleys to walk through,
where shadows fall away
and the land is full of promise.