Lagos Glow

Lagos, 2 a.m. Toronto, 9 p.m.
Same moon on both windows.

(same moon)

A boy on a rooftop in Surulere
counts the stars through the power-cut air.
An ocean away, his cousin climbs the fire escape,
phone in her hand, the same silver shape.
"You see it?" he types. She types, "I see it too."
Two time zones, one and the same view.
Their grandmothers taught them the same lullaby —
different accents, identical sky.

Distance is a rumor the map keeps telling;
the light doesn't read the borderline.
Whatever the flag on the door of the dwelling,
the night hangs the same design.

We look up at the same moon —
Lagos glow or Toronto June.
Wherever your window, whatever your street,
the same white light finds our feet.

(same moon)

Look up! (same moon)
Reach out! (same light)

(the sky keeps no border)

A fisherman off the Kerala coast
hums to the tide like a welcoming host.
A trucker parked on a Kansas plain
tips his cap to the window pane.
A girl in Warsaw, a boy in Belém,
send the same photo at 11 p.m. —
a million cameras raised at one white stone:
proof that nobody watches alone.

Distance is a rumor the map keeps telling;
the light doesn't read the borderline.
Whatever the flag on the door of the dwelling,
the night hangs the same design.

We look up at the same moon —
Lagos glow or Toronto June.
Wherever your window, whatever your street,
the same white light finds our feet.

(same moon)

Truth is, we argued about lines all day —
who belongs, who should stay.
Then the night came, patient and wide,
and hung one lantern for every side.
Nobody owns it. Everybody's in it.

Mm. (look up)
Mm. (same light)

(one lantern, every side)

We look up at the same moon —
Lagos glow or Toronto June.
Wherever your window, whatever your street,
the same white light finds our feet.

(same moon)

"You see it?" "I see it too."
Goodnight, everywhere.

(same moon)