​Peace is not the absence of a sound, Or the stillness of a field where no one goes; It is the anchor finally touching ground, The ending of the "theirs" and of the "those." It is the dream that lives in every tongue, From city spires to the desert heat— A song that every mother’s heart has sung Above a child who is finally asleep. ​We are tired of the architecture of the wall, Of counting winners by the things they break; We are waiting for the heavy masks to fall, For a world that gives more than it seeks to take. We want a morning where the news is just the weather, Where the borders are just lines upon a map, Where we find the grace to pull the world together And bridge the wide and bitter human gap. ​It’s the simple hope of bread upon the table, Of walking down a street without a fear; The right to be both vulnerable and able, To keep the things we love and hold them near. We don’t want the glory or the crown, Or the monuments that rise from blood and clay; We want to lay the heavy burden down And watch our children learn a better way. ​For peace is built in small, persistent acts: The shared water, the hand held out in grief, The courage to ignore the hardened facts And offer up a common, green leaf. It starts within the quiet of the chest, Then ripples out like light across the sea— The world’s long, aching search for rest, The simple prayer to finally just be.