A town can fit between two rivers,
between one border post and the next.
A child arrives there without choosing
which flag will name the road outside.
Years later, the map may seem to ask
for one answer, one homeland, one direction.
But a border is also a meeting place:
voices crossing, families carrying stories,
a name spoken differently on either side.
What we inherit is not a command.
We can remember where we began
without turning memory into a weapon.
We can belong to a place
and still leave room for another.
Let history be read with open eyes,
its claims weighed against the lives they touched.
The past is not a warrant for conquest;
it is a warning, kept carefully, in common hands.
