Festivals.
The tribes meet.
Diluted rivers.
Archaeology of villages.
In America.
Forest with branches everywhere.
None the same,
except the music
that comes with the storm,
the dancing of breezes.
Whose festival is first?
Italians, Germans, Asian,
Jews, Russians, everyone.
The head spins
to see the children of the world
at peace.
Hatred’s drained into the soil,
and a bird from paradise
flying over the zenith.
Is this our heritage?
To see,
with eyes
uncovered by a veil.
Hearts that laid down the steel
and picked up a rose.
Poems for people,
old with dreams.
Celebrating their mothers and fathers.
Children,
with faces
that look out the windows
of their schools,
and hear recess
coming with a bell.
To go and play with each other,
remembering only,
the unison of their lives,
as they are played
in a land of festivals,
for everyone.