The Garden Of Different Suns

The Garden of Different Suns

We were never meant to orbit the same star—  
each of us spun from dust  
into separate constellations,  
tongues humming hymns in a thousand keys,  
hands carving paths through the wilderness  
of *what if* and *why not*.  

The Divine etched difference into our bones—  
not to divide, but to draw us closer  
to the ache of wonder:  
*How vast is the spectrum of holy?*  

Some kneel in the direction of dawn,  
others chant where shadows pool—  
yet the same sky cradles our longing.  
We are tested not by the angle of our prayers,  
but by how fiercely we guard the light  
in another’s lantern.  

Let the seas quarrel with the shore,  
let the wind debate the mountain’s stillness—  
still, the earth turns, stitching its wounds  
with roots that refuse to unravel.  

Race, then—not to conquer, but to cradle.  
Outbuild the night with bridges, not walls.  
For every law, a thread;  
every life, a compass quivering toward *good*.  

In the end, we are seeds husked open—  
all husks shed, all maps forgotten.  
God will gather our quarrels like fallen leaves,  
whispering, Look how you grew  
when you thought you were lost. 

MyKoul