They drew a line across the earth
and called it law.
But the wind did not obey.
The sun did not ask for papers.
And the child,
cradled in her mother’s arms,
carried only hope
and a name whispered in prayer.

She crossed not to conquer,
but to survive.
To plant roots in soil
that promised breath,
not barbed wire.

Yet here,
she is a number.
A case.
A file.
A silence.

But still—
her story blooms
in the cracks of concrete,
in the language of longing,
in the hands that reach
across fences
to say:
You are seen.
You are sacred.
You belong.