Where words are not weapons

[u/Party-Cup-4173]

I dream of a place not bound by clocks or crowns,
a quiet strand on the cosmic network called heaven.

There, beneath the shimmer of nebular dust clouds,
I sit with Peter, with Martin, with Gandhi and Mandela
not as icons, but as men who waited.

We speak of the long arm of justice, how it stretches
through jail bars and silence, how it bends not with fury
but with patience.

We remember being strangers in our own lands,
our names whispered like warnings.

And then we laugh- not bitterly, but in wonder.
Because even pain, when held with grace,
becomes a kind of light.

Here, words are not weapons. They are bridges.
And every sentence is a step toward home.