We wake in separate skins but dream the same electric blue,

our mothers' lullabies braided from identical ache.

Beneath the babel of our borrowed words,

the same pulse taps morse code against our wrists.

They carved us into categories: this tribe, that tongue,

these features filed under foreign, those under familiar.

But hunger speaks one syllable across every border,

and grief requires no passport to cross the heart.

Listen: the child in Lagos laughs the same octave

as the child in Liverpool, in Lahore, in Little Rock.

The mathematics of joy needs no translation—

two plus wonder always equals wide eyes.

We are frequencies finding each other through static,

radio signals breaking through imposed distance,

manufactured difference.

Tune past the noise of division and hear it:

the common frequency humming beneath our skin.

In Marrakech, the merchant's daughter counts coins

the same way her cousin in Manchester portions rice,

both learning the weight of what feeds a family

The colonizer's map drew lines through living systems,

split watersheds, severed root from root.

But underground, the mycorrhizal networks persisted,

tree talking to tree in chemical whispers:

we are still connected, still sharing what we need.

This is the revolution they never saw coming—

not armies but recognition, not conquest but chorus.

We are learning to harmonize across artificial distances,

finding the frequency that makes walls transparent.

When we sing together, borders dissolve.

When we breathe together, categories collapse.

We are not fragments of a broken world

but facets of one light, learning to shine

in the same direction, toward each other

The decolonized mind is not a fortress

but a satellite dish, tuned to receive

the signal that says: you belong, we belong,

this earth belongs to all who tend it tenderly.

Listen—can you hear it? The frequency that connects us all.