There is a table,
wide as the horizon,
built from hands of every shade,
every story,
every road walked barefoot and bruised.

Some chairs have always been there,
polished smooth by time,
by comfort,
by voices that have never had to ask,
“May I sit?”

Others stand at the edges,
plates in hand,
waiting for a place to rest,
waiting for space to be made,
waiting for the silence to break.

The table must grow.
Not with whispers,
not with borrowed seats,
but with wood strong enough to bear the weight
of every voice that was once an echo.

The feast is not a feast
if the same hands pass the bread,
if the same tongues bless the meal,
if the same stories are told
while others swallow hunger in the dark.